My pheromones affect people miles away – in a mild but measurable way. My blood smells like perfume. My personality is so magnetic I can’t even carry credit cards.
I love music and I love to dance. I don’t mean that I enjoy these things. I mean that I love them. Music and dancing fill my heart with a joy that makes everything feel right in the world. Often, when I’m listening to music I imagine myself being a spectacular dancer – complete with five inch stilettos and a sequin dress short enough to be mistaken for a top (if you didn’t know me better). I always imagine myself in the trendiest Miami nightclub. A tall Latin stranger grabs me and spins me onto the dance floor. He speaks no English. I speak what amounts to no Spanish. But dancing – fabulous, choreographed, expert level salsa dancing – is the only language we need.
What a loser! If I keep my mouth shut and stand in the corner with a drink in hand, I can pass for the sexy mysterious girl that everyone wants to get to know. But that has never happened to me a day in my life. For starters, I am physically unable to keep my mouth shut for any amount of time; but also because I am the world’s biggest goof ball. I crack incredibly corny jokes. I do the robot on the dance floor. And my face is like an open book – you can tell exactly what I’m thinking the moment I think it. Not terribly interesting.
Today is my birthday. People often ask if I dislike having been born the day after Christmas. Though I have been known to receive combination birthday/Christmas presents, overall I think my birthday (like Charlie’s review of Maverick's performance) is right-on. Clearly, Jesus loves me best. And in addition to not having to work or go to school on this day, being born at the end of the year helps me to reflect on the year I’ve completed and plan for the year ahead. I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. Besides, I’ve never heard of one that didn’t involve weight loss. (Side bar: You don’t need January 1st to start a diet or hit the gym. Just Do It.) Instead, I focus on what will make me a more interesting person. What, if anything, will balance out the fact that I am the world’s most incredible dork?
Last year that thing was triathlons. The sport has changed my life. And it has given me a head start on Operation Interesting 2011. The first time I travel to the African continent will be to race in my first Half Ironman. I leave in 24 days and can hardly contain my excitement. But even less interesting than being a dork would be becoming a one-dimensional person. While I love triathlons – racing and training – I don’t want my life to be consumed by them. This year, while I will continue with my newfound love, I will also find a new accomplishment to help me become extraordinary. With a last name like Gonzalez I should consider salsa lessons so that I can stop doing the robot on the dance floor. OK, I won’t go that far – it is my signature move. But maybe I will be able to walk into a dance club in Havana, summon the attention of the most interesting man in the room, and in five inch heels and ridiculously short and flowy white dress, dance the dance of love. (While the details of my fantasy change, the short dress and high heels remain constant.)
I am serious when I say that I don’t make New Year's resolutions. I don’t know that I will ever be an international salsa star - beyond my own imagination. Right now I am focused on surviving my Half Ironman, January 23rd in South Africa: 1.2 miles swimming, 56 miles biking, 13.1 miles running. However, I do know that next year, as I reflect on my life and my impending 22nd birthday, I will remain the silliest girl that ever walked the planet, but I will also be a little more interesting.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
A CHRISTMAS STORY
“They” say things come in threes. Among them are Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Of course this is the most magnificent Trinity of all. But my recent non-celestial threesome was far from being in the vicinity of magnificent. Sorry fellas. It ain’t that kinda story…
One.
I was recently in a car accident. I walked away, trembling and hysterical, with barely a scratch on me. My car, much like a reliable friend, had been with me for a third of my life. It was not so lucky.
Two.
Last week I stopped seeing a man that I had hoped to share a future.
Three.
A few days ago I dropped my iPhone and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces.
This is life. Sometimes it really sucks. It can make you walk around in sweat pants for days in a row eating ice cream by the pint, in bed, surrounded by used Kleenex, watching romantic comedies and feeling like there is a deep pit inside your stomach that actually leads to a black hole. I mean, that’s never happened to me. I am way too awesome. I’m obviously talking about lesser people, far more susceptible to un-awesomeness than me.
So, I’ve actually been in several car accidents. It compliments my clumsy nature, I think. But this was the first accident that I actually feared for my life. It was a dark and stormy night (honestly, all good stories should start that way), the first real snowstorm of the season. I was on the highway and saw break lights in front of me. I quickly slowed down, knowing that the road was icy. In my rear view mirror I saw a pick up truck speeding towards me. My body tensed and my knuckles turned white gripping the steering wheel, preparing for the inevitable. The sound of speeding metal colliding, the gust of freezing cold wind when my rear windows shattered, the impact of my head hitting the roof, and the trickling crimson blood on my hand – it was all so horrific. The crash threw my phone and I couldn’t find it. I took my seatbelt off to look around and noticed a car doing doughnuts on the road, heading straight for me. Screaming, I tried to put my seatbelt back on, but it was stuck. In that moment, I literally thought my life was over. I didn’t have any flashes of loved ones or of cherished memories. I felt no regrets on the cusp of leaving this world. I didn’t even see a light or a tunnel. Instead, I sat frozen clutching a malfunctioning seatbelt and feeling two of the most basic human emotions: pure terror and an overwhelming desire to live.
You know how the story ends. I lived and was truly grateful to my Creator for continued life, for the ability to walk, to see, speak, and feel. But instead of walking away with new super-hero powers, like the ability to control the weather or be a really amazing graphic designer who can draw the future (as is customary with all near death experiences), I was left with a totaled car, insurance hassles and a case of “Why Me.”
With the exception of being unnaturally awesome (as I mentioned earlier), I really am like every other silly girl in America. When I meet a man that I click with, I imagine our futures together. How long will we date before we get married? How many children will we have? Will we have a church wedding or get married in the Caribbean? What will my dress look like?! Ahh… think I’m crazy if you will, but the truth is once I cannot see myself marrying a man, I lose interest in him. That is the price of crazy, I guess. When I realized that I had no future with Chaz Michael Michaels, it was like pieces of my life were being taken away from me. Three boys and a girl – vanished; summer boat trips – gone; New Years Eve date – sayonara; and of course the company of someone I had grown to care for – well, it was all over. While the relationship wasn’t serious, it was serious enough for me to feel hurt at its ending. Facebook doesn’t make it any easier. Every day, all day its pictures of people’s adorable children with stupid looks of unconditional love plastered on their faces. And incredibly obnoxious postings like:
“It ALL means nothing by yourself...having that special someone to share it ALL with, does something to your soul. Happy Holidays ♥ ♥ ♥”
Really? I mean, I should start driving towards the cliff, since my life apparently means nothing and my soul is unfulfilled. Less obnoxious would be my response:
“I eat 3,500 calories a day and I’m a size 4. And gorgeous. And the only ass I wiped today was my own.”
Finally, when I shattered my phone it all began to feel unbearable. “Why Me?”
The next day when I walked into the Apple Store I was prepared to drop up to $400 to repair or replace my phone. I must have looked desperately pathetic because the sales rep said it seemed like the universe was out of balance for me and he replaced my phone… for free. I believe that the Lord never gives you more than you can handle. In that moment, again born from misfortune, I felt grateful to my Creator. Not just over $400, though that amount of money means more to me now than it ever has. I was grateful for a win, or at least not one more loss.
All around us is suffering. Though so many others have it far worse, it is often little consolation for our own suffering. “Why Me.” In truth, I cannot begin to count my blessings. As we approach the celebration of Christ’s birth, it seems that I am becoming more aware of His presence in my life. As unworthy as I am, I continue to praise His name and acknowledge my gifts… among which are a brand new triathlete rear-end that even J-Lo would envy (it really is quite spectacular); incredible resilience – even if it does seem that I could use a little more time to recover between hits lately; and my gift for writing which had seemed to all but disappear. It’s return, much like a super-human mutant power, was sparked by a trilogy of misfortunes. So, thanks JC. I owe you. But maybe the next time I get writer’s block, You send a writer’s clinic pamphlet instead?
One.
I was recently in a car accident. I walked away, trembling and hysterical, with barely a scratch on me. My car, much like a reliable friend, had been with me for a third of my life. It was not so lucky.
Two.
Last week I stopped seeing a man that I had hoped to share a future.
Three.
A few days ago I dropped my iPhone and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces.
This is life. Sometimes it really sucks. It can make you walk around in sweat pants for days in a row eating ice cream by the pint, in bed, surrounded by used Kleenex, watching romantic comedies and feeling like there is a deep pit inside your stomach that actually leads to a black hole. I mean, that’s never happened to me. I am way too awesome. I’m obviously talking about lesser people, far more susceptible to un-awesomeness than me.
So, I’ve actually been in several car accidents. It compliments my clumsy nature, I think. But this was the first accident that I actually feared for my life. It was a dark and stormy night (honestly, all good stories should start that way), the first real snowstorm of the season. I was on the highway and saw break lights in front of me. I quickly slowed down, knowing that the road was icy. In my rear view mirror I saw a pick up truck speeding towards me. My body tensed and my knuckles turned white gripping the steering wheel, preparing for the inevitable. The sound of speeding metal colliding, the gust of freezing cold wind when my rear windows shattered, the impact of my head hitting the roof, and the trickling crimson blood on my hand – it was all so horrific. The crash threw my phone and I couldn’t find it. I took my seatbelt off to look around and noticed a car doing doughnuts on the road, heading straight for me. Screaming, I tried to put my seatbelt back on, but it was stuck. In that moment, I literally thought my life was over. I didn’t have any flashes of loved ones or of cherished memories. I felt no regrets on the cusp of leaving this world. I didn’t even see a light or a tunnel. Instead, I sat frozen clutching a malfunctioning seatbelt and feeling two of the most basic human emotions: pure terror and an overwhelming desire to live.
You know how the story ends. I lived and was truly grateful to my Creator for continued life, for the ability to walk, to see, speak, and feel. But instead of walking away with new super-hero powers, like the ability to control the weather or be a really amazing graphic designer who can draw the future (as is customary with all near death experiences), I was left with a totaled car, insurance hassles and a case of “Why Me.”
With the exception of being unnaturally awesome (as I mentioned earlier), I really am like every other silly girl in America. When I meet a man that I click with, I imagine our futures together. How long will we date before we get married? How many children will we have? Will we have a church wedding or get married in the Caribbean? What will my dress look like?! Ahh… think I’m crazy if you will, but the truth is once I cannot see myself marrying a man, I lose interest in him. That is the price of crazy, I guess. When I realized that I had no future with Chaz Michael Michaels, it was like pieces of my life were being taken away from me. Three boys and a girl – vanished; summer boat trips – gone; New Years Eve date – sayonara; and of course the company of someone I had grown to care for – well, it was all over. While the relationship wasn’t serious, it was serious enough for me to feel hurt at its ending. Facebook doesn’t make it any easier. Every day, all day its pictures of people’s adorable children with stupid looks of unconditional love plastered on their faces. And incredibly obnoxious postings like:
“It ALL means nothing by yourself...having that special someone to share it ALL with, does something to your soul. Happy Holidays ♥ ♥ ♥”
Really? I mean, I should start driving towards the cliff, since my life apparently means nothing and my soul is unfulfilled. Less obnoxious would be my response:
“I eat 3,500 calories a day and I’m a size 4. And gorgeous. And the only ass I wiped today was my own.”
Finally, when I shattered my phone it all began to feel unbearable. “Why Me?”
The next day when I walked into the Apple Store I was prepared to drop up to $400 to repair or replace my phone. I must have looked desperately pathetic because the sales rep said it seemed like the universe was out of balance for me and he replaced my phone… for free. I believe that the Lord never gives you more than you can handle. In that moment, again born from misfortune, I felt grateful to my Creator. Not just over $400, though that amount of money means more to me now than it ever has. I was grateful for a win, or at least not one more loss.
All around us is suffering. Though so many others have it far worse, it is often little consolation for our own suffering. “Why Me.” In truth, I cannot begin to count my blessings. As we approach the celebration of Christ’s birth, it seems that I am becoming more aware of His presence in my life. As unworthy as I am, I continue to praise His name and acknowledge my gifts… among which are a brand new triathlete rear-end that even J-Lo would envy (it really is quite spectacular); incredible resilience – even if it does seem that I could use a little more time to recover between hits lately; and my gift for writing which had seemed to all but disappear. It’s return, much like a super-human mutant power, was sparked by a trilogy of misfortunes. So, thanks JC. I owe you. But maybe the next time I get writer’s block, You send a writer’s clinic pamphlet instead?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
FAST TIMES AT GROSSE POINTE SOUTH HIGH
“I get older, they stay the same age.”
I recently heard a Justin Bieber song. He was asking a girl to love him. I’m not gonna lie. I like the song. I think it’s kinda hot, actually. No, I don’t want to be the one to love Justin Bieber, but maybe we could just hold hands?
I swim at 5AM three times a week at my old high school. I do drills for two hours. There’s no music in the water, so I usually have the last song I heard in the car stuck in my head for most of practice. This morning it was Taio Cruz’ Dynamite. I never liked that song until it was made famous by Back Shaft Productions (the Naval Academy’s fictional production studio) for a Spirit Spot against Air Force.* Do you have any idea what it’s like to sing one verse to yourself for two hours, especially when the words are all wrong? As it turns out, there is no mention of Galileo in that song at all. When I’m not singing to myself I try to keep track of my laps and repetitions. In my head it goes something like 25-25-25... FLIP, 50-50-50… FLIP… It’s not a very entertaining sport.
Swimming at my Alma Mater is not all bad, though. For starters, I have killer arms, shoulder and back muscles now. Really, not too shabby at all if I do say so myself... But most of all, there’s Ben, one of my three swim coaches. Ben is an All American. Some call it stalking, but I call it a bit of “investigative reporting.” Ben lettered in varsity sports nine times at the University of Michigan. Swimming and baseball. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be a varsity athlete in college, let alone to be one in two different sports?
On the weeks when Ben is not coaching, he often joins us for a swim. When he walks into the pool I can’t help but stop and stare. It’s like he walks in slow motion and I hear “Oh Yeah” from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.** He sets his things down, then takes his clothes off and I swear the water gets a little warmer. I was a pretty girl in high school. Never had issues with weight, acne, braces, oily hair or glasses. But when I stare at him, with his perfectly chiseled 6”3, 190 pound frame (“investigative reporting!”), I feel like I have all of those issues at once; giggling coyly when he smiles at me while his tooth sparkles like an Orbitz commercial. I want to wrap him up and take him home to cook for me and perform… other household duties.
So, why am I not planning my wedding at the Plaza this June (which I have on reserve every year, for the next ten years - I mean, a girl can never be too prepared.)? Well, Ben is a child. Or close enough. He graduated from college in 2008. Ben is 24. Despite the half your age plus seven rule, I still feel like a naughty old cougar when I think of him. I’m just three cats, a girdle and a pair of Lycra cheetah patterned pants away from sealing the deal.
I am embarrassed and also a little hesitant to admit that I found myself “observing” one of the male high school swimmers. I didn’t realize he was a student until he started swimming with the rest of the high school team. He was swimming in the lane closest to the adults and he had a five o’clock shadow! How was I supposed to know that he was a child? These people should come stamped with gigantic tattoos. “I AM A MINOR,” and it should be printed all over their bodies! What is wrong with me?!
I have no interest in dating younger men, and not just because it would land me on a list that keeps me 100 yards away from schools and Ice Cream trucks. I am actually attracted to older men. Looks have little bearing on my choice for a partner. I care more about someone’s ability to make me laugh, challenge me, grow with me and ultimately provide for a family than I do about the size of his biceps or a pretty face. But men are different. They don’t think like normal people. They are visual beings and I kind of feel sorry for them. If I have these feelings for Ben and an occasional 18 year old (I’m letting myself believe that this student was actually an adult so I don’t have to gauge my eyes out!), men must truly suffer. I think I’m prettier now than I was in high school. But there is a certain air about a young woman that is both stunning and fleeting. Unfortunately for our society, this trait does not always wait for an 18th birthday.
Believe me, I do not troll my old high school for dates. But honestly, just because I don’t want to be in a relationship with Ben doesn’t mean that we can’t… hold hands. Just kidding. ;)
*Back Shaft Productions Spirit Spot: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_0cuVeaecQ
*Oh Yeah:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OG_6CopW9GQ
I recently heard a Justin Bieber song. He was asking a girl to love him. I’m not gonna lie. I like the song. I think it’s kinda hot, actually. No, I don’t want to be the one to love Justin Bieber, but maybe we could just hold hands?
I swim at 5AM three times a week at my old high school. I do drills for two hours. There’s no music in the water, so I usually have the last song I heard in the car stuck in my head for most of practice. This morning it was Taio Cruz’ Dynamite. I never liked that song until it was made famous by Back Shaft Productions (the Naval Academy’s fictional production studio) for a Spirit Spot against Air Force.* Do you have any idea what it’s like to sing one verse to yourself for two hours, especially when the words are all wrong? As it turns out, there is no mention of Galileo in that song at all. When I’m not singing to myself I try to keep track of my laps and repetitions. In my head it goes something like 25-25-25... FLIP, 50-50-50… FLIP… It’s not a very entertaining sport.
Swimming at my Alma Mater is not all bad, though. For starters, I have killer arms, shoulder and back muscles now. Really, not too shabby at all if I do say so myself... But most of all, there’s Ben, one of my three swim coaches. Ben is an All American. Some call it stalking, but I call it a bit of “investigative reporting.” Ben lettered in varsity sports nine times at the University of Michigan. Swimming and baseball. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be a varsity athlete in college, let alone to be one in two different sports?
On the weeks when Ben is not coaching, he often joins us for a swim. When he walks into the pool I can’t help but stop and stare. It’s like he walks in slow motion and I hear “Oh Yeah” from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.** He sets his things down, then takes his clothes off and I swear the water gets a little warmer. I was a pretty girl in high school. Never had issues with weight, acne, braces, oily hair or glasses. But when I stare at him, with his perfectly chiseled 6”3, 190 pound frame (“investigative reporting!”), I feel like I have all of those issues at once; giggling coyly when he smiles at me while his tooth sparkles like an Orbitz commercial. I want to wrap him up and take him home to cook for me and perform… other household duties.
So, why am I not planning my wedding at the Plaza this June (which I have on reserve every year, for the next ten years - I mean, a girl can never be too prepared.)? Well, Ben is a child. Or close enough. He graduated from college in 2008. Ben is 24. Despite the half your age plus seven rule, I still feel like a naughty old cougar when I think of him. I’m just three cats, a girdle and a pair of Lycra cheetah patterned pants away from sealing the deal.
I am embarrassed and also a little hesitant to admit that I found myself “observing” one of the male high school swimmers. I didn’t realize he was a student until he started swimming with the rest of the high school team. He was swimming in the lane closest to the adults and he had a five o’clock shadow! How was I supposed to know that he was a child? These people should come stamped with gigantic tattoos. “I AM A MINOR,” and it should be printed all over their bodies! What is wrong with me?!
I have no interest in dating younger men, and not just because it would land me on a list that keeps me 100 yards away from schools and Ice Cream trucks. I am actually attracted to older men. Looks have little bearing on my choice for a partner. I care more about someone’s ability to make me laugh, challenge me, grow with me and ultimately provide for a family than I do about the size of his biceps or a pretty face. But men are different. They don’t think like normal people. They are visual beings and I kind of feel sorry for them. If I have these feelings for Ben and an occasional 18 year old (I’m letting myself believe that this student was actually an adult so I don’t have to gauge my eyes out!), men must truly suffer. I think I’m prettier now than I was in high school. But there is a certain air about a young woman that is both stunning and fleeting. Unfortunately for our society, this trait does not always wait for an 18th birthday.
Believe me, I do not troll my old high school for dates. But honestly, just because I don’t want to be in a relationship with Ben doesn’t mean that we can’t… hold hands. Just kidding. ;)
*Back Shaft Productions Spirit Spot: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_0cuVeaecQ
*Oh Yeah:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OG_6CopW9GQ
Friday, August 27, 2010
I Consider Procreation a Sign of Deep Personal Weakness
Right off the bat I will admit to stealing that line from Sue Sylvester. It’s fantastic.
I don’t really love children. In general they smell bad, the sounds they make are like nails on a chalkboard and they can’t do anything for themselves. I actually don’t like needy people, and the fact that they happen to be short doesn’t give them a free pass. I evaluate kids on a case-by-case basis. So, when I think about the legacy I will leave behind on this earth, I am really left to wonder.
When I was in grade school my teachers used to tell my parents and me what a gifted writer I was. I often had to read my stories in front of the class. In high school the classes I enjoyed most were English and literature. But instead of ending up at a great journalism school like Northwestern, I ended up at the United States Naval Academy (no doubt propelled by handsome, athletic men in uniform), an engineering school where everyone earns a Bachelors of Science degree. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have traded my experience there for anything. But I wonder why I didn’t listen when my plebe year English teacher held me back from class one afternoon and told me I had no business being at the Academy, but instead should be off in journalism school. Writing.
In business school, my finance and accounting professors thought I was mildly retarded, a blatant admissions mistake. My professors in my softer courses, which required creative thinking, thought I was something special, and not the Olympic kind. So naturally, my first job out of business school was in consumer marketing; where I spent the majority of my time in Excel performing quantitative analytics. Basically, I was analyzing numbers all day.
I am a deeply spiritual and religious person. I don’t believe in destiny. I know that we choose our own path, right or wrong. But sometimes, we get a little push.
I am genuinely happy with my life exactly how it is. Well, let me rephrase: I am genuinely mostly happy with my life, almost exactly as it is.
I’ve noticed something very strange happening to me within the last year or so. Sometimes I see babies and I feel a sense of longing. I of course mean the ones that are sleeping or have sense enough to keep their little mouths shut. When I see little kids missing their front teeth and smiling at me with nothing but innocence and love in their eyes, for one brief moment I melt. Those short little bastards are tricksters*. I have so much going on in my life right now. 99 problems, but a pimp (and a baby) ain’t one. This cannot possibly be where I am feeling a void in my life?
You know the question, “If money weren’t an issue, what would you do?” Well, for me the answer is easy. I would be the First Lady. Or an astronaut. Or a really famous Hollywood movie star. (Incidentally, June Cleaver is nowhere on that list.) But if I had to limit my answer to something real it would be a world-class Ironman Triathlete and Pulitzer Prize winning writer. Fiiiine. How about I would just be a writer who happens to spend four hours a day training for an Ironman?
First Lady business aside, Barack Obama wrote a book that sold millions of copies. I know he’s the President of the United States and all, but I read the book. It’s not that impressive. I didn’t laugh once. Sometimes it feels as if the only way I’m going to be a successful writer is if I can accomplish something on par with being a presidential candidate. I keep waiting for my chance to save a busload of Cambodian children from drowning in a lake; then push my book, Some call me a hero. I just call myself “Awesome,” on the Today Show. Realistically, I have to assume that’s not going to happen.
When I was a child I thought I could do anything and be anything. Senator, doctor, jet pilot. It was all within my reach. I had incredible parents whose belief in me was so great that it was contagious. At some point, tempered by life, ability and circumstance, that feeling faded. But life gets a little darker when we put our dreams away. (So, Mr. President, if things don’t work out with Michelle, give me a call. Also, should you need a writer on a mission in space, my schedule has recently cleared up.)
Sometimes my dream of becoming a writer feels as lofty as wanting to be a movie star. I mean, how does one even go about getting published? This is a sample of my typewritten cover letter to the Editor in Chief of Fitness Magazine:
………
[Please imagine the typewriter clicks as I type.]
Dear Ms. Betty Wong,
[Return typewriter to starting position. DING!]
I would like to write for your magazine. Both of my parents and ten of my closest Facebook friends think I would be fantastic.
[Ding!]
Sincerely yours,
L.E.G.
Post Script; please note the scented pink paper that this cover letter is typed on. It serves to illustrate what a creative writer I truly am.
………
It sure is tough to follow your dreams. Money is a concern. And so I’ve decided to partner up with my mentor. We’ve started a consulting practice. So unconventional! So exciting! So goddamn scary! These days I split my time between triathlon training, writing and my brand new company. There’s not a lot of time for much else.
Maybe I can’t have it all. Maybe procreation is for the weak. Perhaps I should just focus on greatness without distraction. It is possible that I could become a modern-day Jane Austen (but better since I am also a small business owner and a triathlete). My legacy could be through amazing literature that has an impact on the world. Indefinitely.
But I know that would never make me happy. Nor is it exactly fair, either. I mean, I hit the gene-pool jackpot. My DNA is entirely too fantastic to end with me. I consider procreation my obligation to humanity. This just adds an extra dimension to my dating criteria: Please fill out this brief medical history form before you approach me. Seriously, it seems that my body is reacting to a different kind of stress these days. In the same way I know that I am a writer (and world-class triathlete and savvy business owner), I know that my real legacy on this earth will be in the amazing life I leave behind. I just hope that my own children aren’t as annoying as everyone else’s.
I don’t know when or how any of this is going to shake out. Of course I am afraid of failure. What if my company doesn’t pan out? What if I never get published? What if I come in DFL again at my triathlon this weekend? What if I never find someone who can pass my medical history exam?!
Everyone has “What ifs.” At least we all should. These challenges are what make life interesting. Who wants to watch a movie where Happily Ever After is in the beginning, middle and end? So, if my company doesn’t pan out, I have an MBA and I can always get a (GULP) conventional job. If I never get published, the real tragedy would be if I never tried. If I come in DFL in Chicago, then I’ll sign up for another triathlon next summer and write about my training all winter long. And about that other thing? Well, maybe I’ll get a little push…
Although I live in Detroit (for now), where the beaches are closed due to e coli, the winters are so severe that they steal a bit of your soul every time you survive one, and the Lions are incapable of winning one single football game; I lead the most exciting life I know. And it’s not just because I change jobs and cities like underwear. It’s because I’m going for it. It doesn’t matter how I got in this position, but I keep getting pushed into it. I have to believe that it’s because I’m meant for something great. Every day is like Christmas. I have no idea what’s going to happen or how it’s going to end. But my God, I can’t wait to write about it.
*Urban Dictionary Trickster Definition: A sneaky little shit who practices the art of creeping.
I don’t really love children. In general they smell bad, the sounds they make are like nails on a chalkboard and they can’t do anything for themselves. I actually don’t like needy people, and the fact that they happen to be short doesn’t give them a free pass. I evaluate kids on a case-by-case basis. So, when I think about the legacy I will leave behind on this earth, I am really left to wonder.
When I was in grade school my teachers used to tell my parents and me what a gifted writer I was. I often had to read my stories in front of the class. In high school the classes I enjoyed most were English and literature. But instead of ending up at a great journalism school like Northwestern, I ended up at the United States Naval Academy (no doubt propelled by handsome, athletic men in uniform), an engineering school where everyone earns a Bachelors of Science degree. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have traded my experience there for anything. But I wonder why I didn’t listen when my plebe year English teacher held me back from class one afternoon and told me I had no business being at the Academy, but instead should be off in journalism school. Writing.
In business school, my finance and accounting professors thought I was mildly retarded, a blatant admissions mistake. My professors in my softer courses, which required creative thinking, thought I was something special, and not the Olympic kind. So naturally, my first job out of business school was in consumer marketing; where I spent the majority of my time in Excel performing quantitative analytics. Basically, I was analyzing numbers all day.
I am a deeply spiritual and religious person. I don’t believe in destiny. I know that we choose our own path, right or wrong. But sometimes, we get a little push.
I am genuinely happy with my life exactly how it is. Well, let me rephrase: I am genuinely mostly happy with my life, almost exactly as it is.
I’ve noticed something very strange happening to me within the last year or so. Sometimes I see babies and I feel a sense of longing. I of course mean the ones that are sleeping or have sense enough to keep their little mouths shut. When I see little kids missing their front teeth and smiling at me with nothing but innocence and love in their eyes, for one brief moment I melt. Those short little bastards are tricksters*. I have so much going on in my life right now. 99 problems, but a pimp (and a baby) ain’t one. This cannot possibly be where I am feeling a void in my life?
You know the question, “If money weren’t an issue, what would you do?” Well, for me the answer is easy. I would be the First Lady. Or an astronaut. Or a really famous Hollywood movie star. (Incidentally, June Cleaver is nowhere on that list.) But if I had to limit my answer to something real it would be a world-class Ironman Triathlete and Pulitzer Prize winning writer. Fiiiine. How about I would just be a writer who happens to spend four hours a day training for an Ironman?
First Lady business aside, Barack Obama wrote a book that sold millions of copies. I know he’s the President of the United States and all, but I read the book. It’s not that impressive. I didn’t laugh once. Sometimes it feels as if the only way I’m going to be a successful writer is if I can accomplish something on par with being a presidential candidate. I keep waiting for my chance to save a busload of Cambodian children from drowning in a lake; then push my book, Some call me a hero. I just call myself “Awesome,” on the Today Show. Realistically, I have to assume that’s not going to happen.
When I was a child I thought I could do anything and be anything. Senator, doctor, jet pilot. It was all within my reach. I had incredible parents whose belief in me was so great that it was contagious. At some point, tempered by life, ability and circumstance, that feeling faded. But life gets a little darker when we put our dreams away. (So, Mr. President, if things don’t work out with Michelle, give me a call. Also, should you need a writer on a mission in space, my schedule has recently cleared up.)
Sometimes my dream of becoming a writer feels as lofty as wanting to be a movie star. I mean, how does one even go about getting published? This is a sample of my typewritten cover letter to the Editor in Chief of Fitness Magazine:
………
[Please imagine the typewriter clicks as I type.]
Dear Ms. Betty Wong,
[Return typewriter to starting position. DING!]
I would like to write for your magazine. Both of my parents and ten of my closest Facebook friends think I would be fantastic.
[Ding!]
Sincerely yours,
L.E.G.
Post Script; please note the scented pink paper that this cover letter is typed on. It serves to illustrate what a creative writer I truly am.
………
It sure is tough to follow your dreams. Money is a concern. And so I’ve decided to partner up with my mentor. We’ve started a consulting practice. So unconventional! So exciting! So goddamn scary! These days I split my time between triathlon training, writing and my brand new company. There’s not a lot of time for much else.
Maybe I can’t have it all. Maybe procreation is for the weak. Perhaps I should just focus on greatness without distraction. It is possible that I could become a modern-day Jane Austen (but better since I am also a small business owner and a triathlete). My legacy could be through amazing literature that has an impact on the world. Indefinitely.
But I know that would never make me happy. Nor is it exactly fair, either. I mean, I hit the gene-pool jackpot. My DNA is entirely too fantastic to end with me. I consider procreation my obligation to humanity. This just adds an extra dimension to my dating criteria: Please fill out this brief medical history form before you approach me. Seriously, it seems that my body is reacting to a different kind of stress these days. In the same way I know that I am a writer (and world-class triathlete and savvy business owner), I know that my real legacy on this earth will be in the amazing life I leave behind. I just hope that my own children aren’t as annoying as everyone else’s.
I don’t know when or how any of this is going to shake out. Of course I am afraid of failure. What if my company doesn’t pan out? What if I never get published? What if I come in DFL again at my triathlon this weekend? What if I never find someone who can pass my medical history exam?!
Everyone has “What ifs.” At least we all should. These challenges are what make life interesting. Who wants to watch a movie where Happily Ever After is in the beginning, middle and end? So, if my company doesn’t pan out, I have an MBA and I can always get a (GULP) conventional job. If I never get published, the real tragedy would be if I never tried. If I come in DFL in Chicago, then I’ll sign up for another triathlon next summer and write about my training all winter long. And about that other thing? Well, maybe I’ll get a little push…
Although I live in Detroit (for now), where the beaches are closed due to e coli, the winters are so severe that they steal a bit of your soul every time you survive one, and the Lions are incapable of winning one single football game; I lead the most exciting life I know. And it’s not just because I change jobs and cities like underwear. It’s because I’m going for it. It doesn’t matter how I got in this position, but I keep getting pushed into it. I have to believe that it’s because I’m meant for something great. Every day is like Christmas. I have no idea what’s going to happen or how it’s going to end. But my God, I can’t wait to write about it.
*Urban Dictionary Trickster Definition: A sneaky little shit who practices the art of creeping.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Brown Monster
My Chicago triathlon is nine days away. During my last month of preparation, I should have been training diligently in all things swimming, biking and running. Instead, I’ve been gallivanting around the world. Every weekend a different party. Every night a different dress. Ha! If only that were so…
OK, it is partly so. Occasional law breaking and naked dive masters aside, Sweden was quite the experience. First of all, there weren’t many people who looked like me there. Of course, this was part of its appeal. I mean, it’s not like the South where I could be lynched for making eye contact with the wrong person. In Europe, being brown is like having a really cool accent. You can stick me in a city with thousands of blondes and I’ll be in heaven. It’s like going to a party where everyone’s wearing shorts and pants and I’m in a ridiculously short dress and five inch heels. Always. Appropriate.
There were a couple of things that did make me feel slightly out of place, though. Like the time the father of the bride, born and raised in Holland, called me “The Brown Monster.” At least the whole wedding party thought he did. As it turns out, he was actually referring to the oversized brown sofa I slept on in the couple’s living room.
Unfortunately, the thing that made me stand out most had nothing to do with my appearance. Instead, it was regarding the time I inadvertently threatened the life of the bridal party, the hotel guests, and some 600 year-old beloved architecture. Honestly, what’s the big deal? It’s not like old buildings are that difficult to come by in Sweden.
I woke up early the morning of the wedding and went for an incredible run along the Oresund Sea (the body of water that connects Denmark to Sweden). Seriously, both Grosse Pointe and the back-country of Malmo could take some cues from this route. There were bathrooms at every kilometer. It was both a runner’s and an inebriated Canadian’s dream come true. The weather was perfect and the view unreal. With every stride I felt more at peace and more aware of my body, functioning as easily as it ever had. My 60-minute run turned into an 80-minute run. And then I realized I was late. Really late.
The bridal party was meeting at 10am to get our hair and make up done, so when I got back to the hotel room I was in a bit of a hurry. My roommate was gone. I had first dibs in the shower, which, thanks to the Navy, I can take faster than any man I know. Surprisingly, they never cared much about how my hair looked, so while we did have plenty of uniform drills, we never really had hair drills. I knew this was going to take a while. All week I had been wearing my hair naturally, which for me means a bunch of bouncy curls. I knew the stylist would have an anxiety attack if I showed up au naturel, so I did her a favor and began straightening it with my flat iron. I turned on my iPod and was jamming away to REM.
Out of no where, an alarm sounded throughout the hotel. Seriously? This is just my luck! I knew the bride would kill me if I was late for our appointment, so I kept trucking, trying to drown out the sound of the alarm with the sound of Automatic for the People.
A little while later my roommate came in. I asked her what all the hoopla was about. She said the hotel was being evacuated. The dining room, full of people eating breakfast and pre-wedding mingling, was shut down. Everyone was sent outside to stand on the street. Like me, however, she knew the importance of being ready on time and was willing to risk death by fire to sneak upstairs to get ready. But not before she ran into the bride’s sister, searching for her husband and baby amidst the chaos, terrified. It was pandemonium out there.
‘Oh my,’ I thought as I continued to style my hair. ‘That is really too bad. And poor V. Having to evacuate from her wedding suite on her wedding day. I wonder if she’s running out of the hotel carrying her wedding dress and veil. Maybe she needs help? Focus. Stay and finish your hair. Oh, damn! I should have gotten that mani-pedi before I left the States. That should be a customs requirement. Oh, right. Fire alarm. If it’s a real emergency they’ll come and get us.’
All of a sudden I hear commotion coming from the hallway. Shoot. This must be a big deal. They really are coming to get us! What am I going to do about my hair?
There was a bang on my door. I opened it to a panicked fire marshal shouting in Swedish pointing to my smoke detector. Damn it, what is it about these Swedish people yelling at me in Swedish? Is it that difficult to use Ingles in an emergencia? I mean, it’s not as if I started speaking Mexican during General Quarters on my ship, or if I will bust out in Spanish when I inevitably turn 30… someday.
So, after some miming and what I can only assume is the international sign for “You’re starting a fire in my hotel you crazy Panamanian,” I realized it was my flat iron that set off the detector. I know this because when I unplugged it and pointed the fan in that direction the alarm stopped sounding and the fire marshal stopped screaming. Oops. Arms go up in a shrug, palms face upwards, head tilts to the side. That’s the international sign for “My bad…”
Well, all’s well that ends well. That’s what I always say. The wedding dress was safe. Mother and child reunited. Bride and Groom overcome by wedding-day-bliss. And most importantly, I did get to finish straightening my hair at the salon. At which point I had the stylist put it back in curls. (Hey, the shape was different!) I won’t lie, people… my hair did look fantastic.
Nine days. In my world that is an eternity. My life drastically changes course every few hours. There’s no telling what kinds of tomfoolery can happen. Run-ins with the law; impromptu dance competitions; last minute weekend trips; rabid dog chases. Chicago, The Brown Monster is coming! I’m still amazed that I don’t have to register when I enter a new city.
OK, it is partly so. Occasional law breaking and naked dive masters aside, Sweden was quite the experience. First of all, there weren’t many people who looked like me there. Of course, this was part of its appeal. I mean, it’s not like the South where I could be lynched for making eye contact with the wrong person. In Europe, being brown is like having a really cool accent. You can stick me in a city with thousands of blondes and I’ll be in heaven. It’s like going to a party where everyone’s wearing shorts and pants and I’m in a ridiculously short dress and five inch heels. Always. Appropriate.
There were a couple of things that did make me feel slightly out of place, though. Like the time the father of the bride, born and raised in Holland, called me “The Brown Monster.” At least the whole wedding party thought he did. As it turns out, he was actually referring to the oversized brown sofa I slept on in the couple’s living room.
Unfortunately, the thing that made me stand out most had nothing to do with my appearance. Instead, it was regarding the time I inadvertently threatened the life of the bridal party, the hotel guests, and some 600 year-old beloved architecture. Honestly, what’s the big deal? It’s not like old buildings are that difficult to come by in Sweden.
I woke up early the morning of the wedding and went for an incredible run along the Oresund Sea (the body of water that connects Denmark to Sweden). Seriously, both Grosse Pointe and the back-country of Malmo could take some cues from this route. There were bathrooms at every kilometer. It was both a runner’s and an inebriated Canadian’s dream come true. The weather was perfect and the view unreal. With every stride I felt more at peace and more aware of my body, functioning as easily as it ever had. My 60-minute run turned into an 80-minute run. And then I realized I was late. Really late.
The bridal party was meeting at 10am to get our hair and make up done, so when I got back to the hotel room I was in a bit of a hurry. My roommate was gone. I had first dibs in the shower, which, thanks to the Navy, I can take faster than any man I know. Surprisingly, they never cared much about how my hair looked, so while we did have plenty of uniform drills, we never really had hair drills. I knew this was going to take a while. All week I had been wearing my hair naturally, which for me means a bunch of bouncy curls. I knew the stylist would have an anxiety attack if I showed up au naturel, so I did her a favor and began straightening it with my flat iron. I turned on my iPod and was jamming away to REM.
Out of no where, an alarm sounded throughout the hotel. Seriously? This is just my luck! I knew the bride would kill me if I was late for our appointment, so I kept trucking, trying to drown out the sound of the alarm with the sound of Automatic for the People.
A little while later my roommate came in. I asked her what all the hoopla was about. She said the hotel was being evacuated. The dining room, full of people eating breakfast and pre-wedding mingling, was shut down. Everyone was sent outside to stand on the street. Like me, however, she knew the importance of being ready on time and was willing to risk death by fire to sneak upstairs to get ready. But not before she ran into the bride’s sister, searching for her husband and baby amidst the chaos, terrified. It was pandemonium out there.
‘Oh my,’ I thought as I continued to style my hair. ‘That is really too bad. And poor V. Having to evacuate from her wedding suite on her wedding day. I wonder if she’s running out of the hotel carrying her wedding dress and veil. Maybe she needs help? Focus. Stay and finish your hair. Oh, damn! I should have gotten that mani-pedi before I left the States. That should be a customs requirement. Oh, right. Fire alarm. If it’s a real emergency they’ll come and get us.’
All of a sudden I hear commotion coming from the hallway. Shoot. This must be a big deal. They really are coming to get us! What am I going to do about my hair?
There was a bang on my door. I opened it to a panicked fire marshal shouting in Swedish pointing to my smoke detector. Damn it, what is it about these Swedish people yelling at me in Swedish? Is it that difficult to use Ingles in an emergencia? I mean, it’s not as if I started speaking Mexican during General Quarters on my ship, or if I will bust out in Spanish when I inevitably turn 30… someday.
So, after some miming and what I can only assume is the international sign for “You’re starting a fire in my hotel you crazy Panamanian,” I realized it was my flat iron that set off the detector. I know this because when I unplugged it and pointed the fan in that direction the alarm stopped sounding and the fire marshal stopped screaming. Oops. Arms go up in a shrug, palms face upwards, head tilts to the side. That’s the international sign for “My bad…”
Well, all’s well that ends well. That’s what I always say. The wedding dress was safe. Mother and child reunited. Bride and Groom overcome by wedding-day-bliss. And most importantly, I did get to finish straightening my hair at the salon. At which point I had the stylist put it back in curls. (Hey, the shape was different!) I won’t lie, people… my hair did look fantastic.
Nine days. In my world that is an eternity. My life drastically changes course every few hours. There’s no telling what kinds of tomfoolery can happen. Run-ins with the law; impromptu dance competitions; last minute weekend trips; rabid dog chases. Chicago, The Brown Monster is coming! I’m still amazed that I don’t have to register when I enter a new city.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Annie Get Your Clothes On
“I started running ultras to be a better person...I thought if you could run one hundred miles, you’d be in this zen state. You’d be the fucking Buddha, bringing peace and a smile to the world. It didn’t work in my case—I’m the same old punk-ass as before—but there’s always that hope that it will turn you into the person you want to be, a better, more peaceful person.” This is a quote from one of the super athletes in Christopher McDougall’s book, Born to Run.
In the entirety of my life I know that I will never run an ultra marathon, nor will I have the desire to do so. But that passage really struck a chord with me. I have a vision of the person I want to be and I feel like the hobbies I fill my life with are part of this woman that make up my ideal. I want to be a person who will try anything once (maaaybe twice).
My first solo vacation was in Hawaii, summer 2006. I was a little nervous about traveling alone, so I settled on a destination that was technically still the United States, but exotic enough to feel a little dangerous (ha!). I hiked, explored, meditated, talked to strangers... all things associated with being a seasoned traveler. But on that trip, the thing that would change my life was my first dive.
The sensation of breathing in the water, an alternate life under the sea and the badass gear one sported... well, I was hooked. Since then, I’ve been diving all over the world. So when I found out that my travel itinerary included Sweden, I Googled the closest PADI dive center and made my reservations. This would be my first cold water dive which would officially put me on the badass diver list. But the problem with pushing one's self too far too fast in diving, as with anything in life, is that one runs the risk of losing interest, getting hurt and on occasion, even death. Okay, okay. You know by now I have a flare for the dramatic. Death only felt like part of my experience... but it would become one I will never forget.
I traveled two hours north of Malmo by train and bus. When I arrived to the dive shop, I was eager to get on the boat. My fitting was delayed by their struggle to find gloves to fit my freakishly small hands and boots to fit my matching freakishly small feet. (Women all over China are seething with jealousy.) And of course, I was further delayed by my inability to convert pounds to kilograms and inches to centimeters. (Seriously, Europe... the metric system is sooo 2000 & late.)
I gathered my gear and decided I didn’t want my book bag to get wet, so I left it in the van. I got on board and began setting up my equipment. I didn’t trust myself with my own life, so I called the dive master, Annie, over to double check my work. Imagine my surprise when I saw her in her underwear. Changing. On board. Into a bikini. I looked away, embarrassed. If I had known it was gonna be that kinda party I would have worn a lace bra and panty set and called it a day.
With our equipment properly set up, we pulled out to sea. I started to put on my wetsuit. It was bright red and had two pieces. As I struggled to get my leg in, I realized I was the butt of the Swedish banter that had recently started. I was putting my suit on inside out! I turned the suit right side in, but while it is always difficult to put a wetsuit onto dry skin, this time seemed exceptionally arduous. I looked at the suit and realized it was an extra small. EXTRA. SMALL. On what planet do I resemble an extra small? Did they even bother to look at me from behind?! We were too far out to turn around so I pulled harder until I heard a rip in the suit go all the way through the groin. I looked up and heard Silk the Shocker saying, “It ain’t my fault.” I walked over to show the captain the rip in my suit.
He said, “Don’t worry! The jacket will cover it.”
Sigh.
I went back to finish dressing. I tried to peel my jacket on and heard the captain yelling at me in Swedish and motioning with his leg.
I don’t speak Jibberish, Capitán. Speak American, por favor.
He left the helm and walked over to me. For the first time since we pulled out of port I looked up and noticed the mountainous cliffs on the starboard side while no one was piloting the vessel.
Forget about me! Who’s driving the goddamned boat!
He showed me how to put my suit on and returned to the wheel. I tried to zip up the jacket and felt like Chris Farley: fat guy in a little coat. My arms were sticking out and I was seriously struggling to breathe. The captain explained the dive and how different it would be from all the warm water dives I had done before.
“There are a lot of jelly fish in the water. They won’t kill you, but it will hurt like hell.”
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! What did I get myself into?
“The water temperature is 10 degrees." (Celsius.)
“Wait!” I shouted. “What about the tear in my suit?” I was seriously freaking out.
“You’ll be fine.” The captain assured me. “Just set it to the side when you return it.” Okay, so the equipment was good enough for my dive but afterwards it would go to the wetsuit graveyard? Crap.
“You’ll hit a pocket of water on your way down where you will visually see the change in temperature. It will drop 10 degrees.” (Still Celsius!) “Your dive tanks are different from that of your Caribbean dives. Those are aluminum. These are steel. They weigh more. Be careful to maintain your balance or they will flip you over onto your back. Are you ready,” the captain asked with a smile.
No, I am not ready! I wanna watch Oprah. I want my money back. I wanna go home. I want to live damnit! I want to live.
We arrived at the dive location and everything was zipped, tucked, snapped and buckled. My tank was on my back and my weight belt was squeezing my waist. I was sweating and about to die of heat exhaustion all the while knowing that as soon as I hit the water it was going to feel like an ice cold bath. And, What the What! The captain was wearing a dry suit. A dry suit?! This is the climate of his people and he was wearing a dry suit? My people are a warm people. Our idea of danger is outrunning the drug cartels of Columbia, not treading through the Scandinavian tropics. Why am I in a wetsuit, which by the way, happens to be broken!
I went to the side of the boat and sat on the ledge. I held my mask over my face and the regulator in my mouth. I leaned back and rolled into the water. As soon as I hit I thought my life was over. I could feel cold water seeping in around my face, into my neck, around my ankles, wrists and for the love of everything that is sacred and holy, into my groin. I looked around and was falling into a pool of jelly fish. I was choking, water had gotten into my mask and my ears were already hurting. One at a time I fixed my issues, blowing hard out of my regulator to clear my breathing, blowing hard out of my nose to clear my mask and wiggling my jaw to equalize my ears. Though I wanted to panic, I knew I had to be calm or things would really get bad.
I thought of the groom who helped me arrange this trip and his anecdote about ripping off the masks of his diving buddies to make sure they wouldn’t freak out in an emergency. I thought of my own Swedish dive buddy, three feet away from me, and how I would take his dive knife and drive it through his heart if he tried to play any tricks on me. This was a life or death moment and the score was tied. Then I thought of the bride. Honestly, would a wedding in the Dominican Republic have been out of the question?
I started my dive and tried to think warm thoughts. I thought of the hot bath I would take back in my hotel room until I remembered I had only a stand up shower. Then I thought of a hot tub and wished I had a hot tub time machine. Not to buy stock in Microsoft, but to tell myself not to go on this damn dive trip.
In all of the excitement I realized I was starving. I was swimming with schools of fish and just looking at them made me even hungrier. I would have Daryl Hannah’ed the first lobster I saw.
Cold and hungry I thought the first dive would never end. But mercifully we came up 45 minutes later and rested for an hour and a half. I kept my wetsuit on and lay in the sun, trying to stay warm. This is what my people do. We are of the sun and of peace; well, maybe an occasional kidnapping and drug killing, but still a warm and mostly peaceful people.
Fortunately, my second dive felt faster than the first. I came out of the water and headed straight for the sun. Annie said I would warm up faster if I took my wetsuit off and changed into my dry clothes. On a boat with no changing room, I decided my warmth was more important than my modesty. My male diving buddy took off into the rocks and cliffs behind us. Since I had already seen Annie in her undies, I figured, “When in Rome...”
I headed to the front of the boat, faced the ocean and changed from my wetsuit into my dry clothes. I turned around to head back into the sun and faced an entire group of people who had just climbed onto the rocks and had apparently gotten an up close and personal view of my entire backside; including my dive buddy, back from his excursion. Awesome.
Too tired to care, too hungry to think (oh yeah, my food was in my backpack... in the van), I lay in the sun and fell asleep.
I woke to an underwear clad dive master. Annie had changed into her dry clothes too, but they consisted of Sweden’s version of Victoria’s Secret. Ladies, let me tell ya that confidence goes an incredibly long way. This dive master’s body was nowhere near perfect. She had rolls, dimples, and pale white skin. But as she worked the boat in her underwear, I couldn’t help but notice the way her long curls fell over her shoulders and the way her curves made her look like a woman was meant to look. She was beautiful. Though the other divers (all male) did not seem to be as fazed by the fact that Annie was in her panties, I knew they were thinking the same thing.
We pulled back into port where all the guys tried to help me carry my equipment off the boat. If I had known I wouldn’t have had to carry those ridiculously heavy steel tanks, I would have flashed them the first time around. From both sides.
My dive trip was done. I made it through some of the coldest diving in the world. It won’t happen twice. Well, maaaybe twice. I am not a better person for having done that dive. Like McDougall’s super athletes, I too am the same punk-ass today as I was yesterday. But I will tell you, that after this dive, I am officially badass.
In the entirety of my life I know that I will never run an ultra marathon, nor will I have the desire to do so. But that passage really struck a chord with me. I have a vision of the person I want to be and I feel like the hobbies I fill my life with are part of this woman that make up my ideal. I want to be a person who will try anything once (maaaybe twice).
My first solo vacation was in Hawaii, summer 2006. I was a little nervous about traveling alone, so I settled on a destination that was technically still the United States, but exotic enough to feel a little dangerous (ha!). I hiked, explored, meditated, talked to strangers... all things associated with being a seasoned traveler. But on that trip, the thing that would change my life was my first dive.
The sensation of breathing in the water, an alternate life under the sea and the badass gear one sported... well, I was hooked. Since then, I’ve been diving all over the world. So when I found out that my travel itinerary included Sweden, I Googled the closest PADI dive center and made my reservations. This would be my first cold water dive which would officially put me on the badass diver list. But the problem with pushing one's self too far too fast in diving, as with anything in life, is that one runs the risk of losing interest, getting hurt and on occasion, even death. Okay, okay. You know by now I have a flare for the dramatic. Death only felt like part of my experience... but it would become one I will never forget.
I traveled two hours north of Malmo by train and bus. When I arrived to the dive shop, I was eager to get on the boat. My fitting was delayed by their struggle to find gloves to fit my freakishly small hands and boots to fit my matching freakishly small feet. (Women all over China are seething with jealousy.) And of course, I was further delayed by my inability to convert pounds to kilograms and inches to centimeters. (Seriously, Europe... the metric system is sooo 2000 & late.)
I gathered my gear and decided I didn’t want my book bag to get wet, so I left it in the van. I got on board and began setting up my equipment. I didn’t trust myself with my own life, so I called the dive master, Annie, over to double check my work. Imagine my surprise when I saw her in her underwear. Changing. On board. Into a bikini. I looked away, embarrassed. If I had known it was gonna be that kinda party I would have worn a lace bra and panty set and called it a day.
With our equipment properly set up, we pulled out to sea. I started to put on my wetsuit. It was bright red and had two pieces. As I struggled to get my leg in, I realized I was the butt of the Swedish banter that had recently started. I was putting my suit on inside out! I turned the suit right side in, but while it is always difficult to put a wetsuit onto dry skin, this time seemed exceptionally arduous. I looked at the suit and realized it was an extra small. EXTRA. SMALL. On what planet do I resemble an extra small? Did they even bother to look at me from behind?! We were too far out to turn around so I pulled harder until I heard a rip in the suit go all the way through the groin. I looked up and heard Silk the Shocker saying, “It ain’t my fault.” I walked over to show the captain the rip in my suit.
He said, “Don’t worry! The jacket will cover it.”
Sigh.
I went back to finish dressing. I tried to peel my jacket on and heard the captain yelling at me in Swedish and motioning with his leg.
I don’t speak Jibberish, Capitán. Speak American, por favor.
He left the helm and walked over to me. For the first time since we pulled out of port I looked up and noticed the mountainous cliffs on the starboard side while no one was piloting the vessel.
Forget about me! Who’s driving the goddamned boat!
He showed me how to put my suit on and returned to the wheel. I tried to zip up the jacket and felt like Chris Farley: fat guy in a little coat. My arms were sticking out and I was seriously struggling to breathe. The captain explained the dive and how different it would be from all the warm water dives I had done before.
“There are a lot of jelly fish in the water. They won’t kill you, but it will hurt like hell.”
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! What did I get myself into?
“The water temperature is 10 degrees." (Celsius.)
“Wait!” I shouted. “What about the tear in my suit?” I was seriously freaking out.
“You’ll be fine.” The captain assured me. “Just set it to the side when you return it.” Okay, so the equipment was good enough for my dive but afterwards it would go to the wetsuit graveyard? Crap.
“You’ll hit a pocket of water on your way down where you will visually see the change in temperature. It will drop 10 degrees.” (Still Celsius!) “Your dive tanks are different from that of your Caribbean dives. Those are aluminum. These are steel. They weigh more. Be careful to maintain your balance or they will flip you over onto your back. Are you ready,” the captain asked with a smile.
No, I am not ready! I wanna watch Oprah. I want my money back. I wanna go home. I want to live damnit! I want to live.
We arrived at the dive location and everything was zipped, tucked, snapped and buckled. My tank was on my back and my weight belt was squeezing my waist. I was sweating and about to die of heat exhaustion all the while knowing that as soon as I hit the water it was going to feel like an ice cold bath. And, What the What! The captain was wearing a dry suit. A dry suit?! This is the climate of his people and he was wearing a dry suit? My people are a warm people. Our idea of danger is outrunning the drug cartels of Columbia, not treading through the Scandinavian tropics. Why am I in a wetsuit, which by the way, happens to be broken!
I went to the side of the boat and sat on the ledge. I held my mask over my face and the regulator in my mouth. I leaned back and rolled into the water. As soon as I hit I thought my life was over. I could feel cold water seeping in around my face, into my neck, around my ankles, wrists and for the love of everything that is sacred and holy, into my groin. I looked around and was falling into a pool of jelly fish. I was choking, water had gotten into my mask and my ears were already hurting. One at a time I fixed my issues, blowing hard out of my regulator to clear my breathing, blowing hard out of my nose to clear my mask and wiggling my jaw to equalize my ears. Though I wanted to panic, I knew I had to be calm or things would really get bad.
I thought of the groom who helped me arrange this trip and his anecdote about ripping off the masks of his diving buddies to make sure they wouldn’t freak out in an emergency. I thought of my own Swedish dive buddy, three feet away from me, and how I would take his dive knife and drive it through his heart if he tried to play any tricks on me. This was a life or death moment and the score was tied. Then I thought of the bride. Honestly, would a wedding in the Dominican Republic have been out of the question?
I started my dive and tried to think warm thoughts. I thought of the hot bath I would take back in my hotel room until I remembered I had only a stand up shower. Then I thought of a hot tub and wished I had a hot tub time machine. Not to buy stock in Microsoft, but to tell myself not to go on this damn dive trip.
In all of the excitement I realized I was starving. I was swimming with schools of fish and just looking at them made me even hungrier. I would have Daryl Hannah’ed the first lobster I saw.
Cold and hungry I thought the first dive would never end. But mercifully we came up 45 minutes later and rested for an hour and a half. I kept my wetsuit on and lay in the sun, trying to stay warm. This is what my people do. We are of the sun and of peace; well, maybe an occasional kidnapping and drug killing, but still a warm and mostly peaceful people.
Fortunately, my second dive felt faster than the first. I came out of the water and headed straight for the sun. Annie said I would warm up faster if I took my wetsuit off and changed into my dry clothes. On a boat with no changing room, I decided my warmth was more important than my modesty. My male diving buddy took off into the rocks and cliffs behind us. Since I had already seen Annie in her undies, I figured, “When in Rome...”
I headed to the front of the boat, faced the ocean and changed from my wetsuit into my dry clothes. I turned around to head back into the sun and faced an entire group of people who had just climbed onto the rocks and had apparently gotten an up close and personal view of my entire backside; including my dive buddy, back from his excursion. Awesome.
Too tired to care, too hungry to think (oh yeah, my food was in my backpack... in the van), I lay in the sun and fell asleep.
I woke to an underwear clad dive master. Annie had changed into her dry clothes too, but they consisted of Sweden’s version of Victoria’s Secret. Ladies, let me tell ya that confidence goes an incredibly long way. This dive master’s body was nowhere near perfect. She had rolls, dimples, and pale white skin. But as she worked the boat in her underwear, I couldn’t help but notice the way her long curls fell over her shoulders and the way her curves made her look like a woman was meant to look. She was beautiful. Though the other divers (all male) did not seem to be as fazed by the fact that Annie was in her panties, I knew they were thinking the same thing.
We pulled back into port where all the guys tried to help me carry my equipment off the boat. If I had known I wouldn’t have had to carry those ridiculously heavy steel tanks, I would have flashed them the first time around. From both sides.
My dive trip was done. I made it through some of the coldest diving in the world. It won’t happen twice. Well, maaaybe twice. I am not a better person for having done that dive. Like McDougall’s super athletes, I too am the same punk-ass today as I was yesterday. But I will tell you, that after this dive, I am officially badass.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Law Breaking and Other Swedish Shenanigans
The thing about triathlons is that it has totally changed my outlook on life. When I wake up I want to go running. When I overeat, I want to burn it off. When I'm mad, I workout my anger. And when I'm tipsy, well... At least I try to walk it off.
I'm in Sweden this week visiting my college roommate. She's getting married and I'm a bridesmaid. It's been a while since we've seen each other and of course the best way to celebrate our reunion was over a bottle of red wine. For me, three drinks is perfect. Everything is ridiculously funny and I laugh just a little too loud. Three drinks. Not four. Three (3).
I know my limit. It's not a secret and it's not like it ever changes. In fact, the bride and I were discussing that very fact on a bike ride earlier that day. Four drinks for me is like feeding a gremlin after midnight and then dousing it in water. "Never get it drunk," should be tattooed on my forehead. Fortunately, I'm in the company of one of my best friends in the world, and her soon to be husband which makes him like a newly adopted brother. Perhaps, after witnessing some of my escapades, he questions her choice in friends. And perhaps now he'll warn off his Swedish-model groomsmen to stay away from "crazy," (me). But he accepts me for who I am even if he doesn't find my shenanigans half as funny as his bride. His loss...
So, head spinning, trying to keep myself from vomiting in the soon-to-be newly-weds only bathroom, I decided fresh air and exercise was the solution to my problem. I took off into the backcountry of Malmo Sweden and went for a walk. On the lookout for a girl with a dragon tattoo, careful not to kick a hornet's nest or play with fire, I put on my tunes and felt surprisingly amazing. And oh my, is this Method Man on my iPod? As if I was walking through the 'hood in Detroit, I stuck my right arm out and put my first two fingers in the air, not to indicate a sign of peace but instead the sign of deuces (because apparently that's how I roll). I used my left hand to stir my imaginary turn tables while I kicked up my right leg and bounced up and down on my left. Seriously, that may sound like I actually did wind up in the middle of a hornet's nest and on fire, but I was stylin' (and you can't say anything different). I'm just not sure why the group of teenage girls who passed me at that exact moment on their bikes and stared at me like an escaped mental patient did not also realize that.
'Wait, come back!' I wanted to shout. 'That's just how we do in Detroit. I promise there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on here.'
Oh well. I'll never see them again...
I walked for 35 minutes more in that direction. I soaked in the scenery, the smell of northern Europe, the look of the broad-daylight sky at 2130 hours (I love that they use military time here). And I realized that while I was still pleasantly smitten, I had to use the bathroom and had not passed a single public restroom or (heaven forbid) porta-potty. I've always felt mildly repulsed by the fact that Lady-Gaga was born with (and kept) both a yahoo and yazoo. But for the first time I felt a glimmer of jealousy for her at my inability to pee standing up. Damn you Lady-Gaga and your hermaphrodite circus tricks.
People, I was drunk in a foreign country and I had to pee and I knew I wasn't going to make it. I had flashes of the Malmo drunk tank I would be thrown in and weighed my options between calling my parents to bail me out of jail in Sweden and an erupted gallbladder with weeks of recovery in the hospital. What would you do! I made a command decision and hit the bushes. My face flushed with embarrassment. I got pricked by a rattle-snake bush (a new breed of shrubbery planted by the Swedish police to ward off law breakers just like me). Forget the erupted gallbladder. My legs were on fire and I was about to be paralyzed and have my wonderful new running legs replaced with titanium stumps. Why, God, why did I have to have that fourth drink?
My brush with the law (I mean, I'm not sure, but I have to assume that public urination is illegal in Sweden) had really helped to sober me up. I was on my way back with a modicum of self respect left after my gremlinish behavior. And then it happened. Michael Jackson's Wanna Be Startin' Something came on my iPod. I looked around to make sure no one was there and started dancing in the middle of the sidewalk again. "Ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma ma coo sa." I mean, basically you have no soul if you hear that and don't bust out some moves. So I pulled out a hybrid Native American rain dance and running man combo and added in a cross of an African fertility dance and the robot. Then, (and really, I can't make this stuff up), those teenage girls passed me again. With the look of fear and pity across their face I wanted to shout to them,
'Wait! In America we watch Glee where it is totally appropriate (if not encouraged) to break out in song and choreographed dance to express our inner most feelings through popular music. So you see, there's absolutely nothing wrong with what I was just doing. Did you hear me? Come baaaack!'
Instead, I shouted, "I'm Canadian!"
Hey, triathletes think fast on their feet.
I'm in Sweden this week visiting my college roommate. She's getting married and I'm a bridesmaid. It's been a while since we've seen each other and of course the best way to celebrate our reunion was over a bottle of red wine. For me, three drinks is perfect. Everything is ridiculously funny and I laugh just a little too loud. Three drinks. Not four. Three (3).
I know my limit. It's not a secret and it's not like it ever changes. In fact, the bride and I were discussing that very fact on a bike ride earlier that day. Four drinks for me is like feeding a gremlin after midnight and then dousing it in water. "Never get it drunk," should be tattooed on my forehead. Fortunately, I'm in the company of one of my best friends in the world, and her soon to be husband which makes him like a newly adopted brother. Perhaps, after witnessing some of my escapades, he questions her choice in friends. And perhaps now he'll warn off his Swedish-model groomsmen to stay away from "crazy," (me). But he accepts me for who I am even if he doesn't find my shenanigans half as funny as his bride. His loss...
So, head spinning, trying to keep myself from vomiting in the soon-to-be newly-weds only bathroom, I decided fresh air and exercise was the solution to my problem. I took off into the backcountry of Malmo Sweden and went for a walk. On the lookout for a girl with a dragon tattoo, careful not to kick a hornet's nest or play with fire, I put on my tunes and felt surprisingly amazing. And oh my, is this Method Man on my iPod? As if I was walking through the 'hood in Detroit, I stuck my right arm out and put my first two fingers in the air, not to indicate a sign of peace but instead the sign of deuces (because apparently that's how I roll). I used my left hand to stir my imaginary turn tables while I kicked up my right leg and bounced up and down on my left. Seriously, that may sound like I actually did wind up in the middle of a hornet's nest and on fire, but I was stylin' (and you can't say anything different). I'm just not sure why the group of teenage girls who passed me at that exact moment on their bikes and stared at me like an escaped mental patient did not also realize that.
'Wait, come back!' I wanted to shout. 'That's just how we do in Detroit. I promise there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on here.'
Oh well. I'll never see them again...
I walked for 35 minutes more in that direction. I soaked in the scenery, the smell of northern Europe, the look of the broad-daylight sky at 2130 hours (I love that they use military time here). And I realized that while I was still pleasantly smitten, I had to use the bathroom and had not passed a single public restroom or (heaven forbid) porta-potty. I've always felt mildly repulsed by the fact that Lady-Gaga was born with (and kept) both a yahoo and yazoo. But for the first time I felt a glimmer of jealousy for her at my inability to pee standing up. Damn you Lady-Gaga and your hermaphrodite circus tricks.
People, I was drunk in a foreign country and I had to pee and I knew I wasn't going to make it. I had flashes of the Malmo drunk tank I would be thrown in and weighed my options between calling my parents to bail me out of jail in Sweden and an erupted gallbladder with weeks of recovery in the hospital. What would you do! I made a command decision and hit the bushes. My face flushed with embarrassment. I got pricked by a rattle-snake bush (a new breed of shrubbery planted by the Swedish police to ward off law breakers just like me). Forget the erupted gallbladder. My legs were on fire and I was about to be paralyzed and have my wonderful new running legs replaced with titanium stumps. Why, God, why did I have to have that fourth drink?
My brush with the law (I mean, I'm not sure, but I have to assume that public urination is illegal in Sweden) had really helped to sober me up. I was on my way back with a modicum of self respect left after my gremlinish behavior. And then it happened. Michael Jackson's Wanna Be Startin' Something came on my iPod. I looked around to make sure no one was there and started dancing in the middle of the sidewalk again. "Ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma ma coo sa." I mean, basically you have no soul if you hear that and don't bust out some moves. So I pulled out a hybrid Native American rain dance and running man combo and added in a cross of an African fertility dance and the robot. Then, (and really, I can't make this stuff up), those teenage girls passed me again. With the look of fear and pity across their face I wanted to shout to them,
'Wait! In America we watch Glee where it is totally appropriate (if not encouraged) to break out in song and choreographed dance to express our inner most feelings through popular music. So you see, there's absolutely nothing wrong with what I was just doing. Did you hear me? Come baaaack!'
Instead, I shouted, "I'm Canadian!"
Hey, triathletes think fast on their feet.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Dead Last. Shattered Dreams. And Other Horrible Horribleness.
My dreams of ever competing in an Ironman Triathlon or Ironman 70.3 were shattered in one morning; this morning, actually. Don’t get me wrong. With the proper amount of training and motivation it is possible. But I literally just used up every single ounce of desire to compete in this god-forsaken sport in the course of one race.
I did not mind the fact that I started out swimming in the Detroit River. When I waded my way through to the starting line, every step was like Russian roulette. The river bottom was a mixture of trash, mud, wild underwater growth, and I don’t know if it was a plastic lining covering the floor bed or illegal hazardous waste dumping, but everything felt like slime. With every step I thought:
‘Will this be the step that my foot lands on an AIDS infected syringe? Nope. How about now? Nope. How about…”
I didn’t even become discouraged when I swallowed a mouth full of water, thinking at worst that any child I have will be born with a third eye or at best maybe I’ll end up with some kind of really cool stomach virus for an entire week! (That would really be such a great diet. I can’t believe pharma companies haven’t marketed this yet.)
The swim was actually fine. Because it was an Olympic Distance, my heat went last and there were only 60 of us (men and women of all age groups started together). I finished in a time that I was satisfied with. Granted, most people were already out of the water, but there still a few people trying to catch me.
I got on the bike, which is usually my worst leg and I felt OK. I had trained on this course before doing five laps, but today I only had to do four. Easy Breezy. I continued to feel that way up until the 3rd lap. It was hot. Too hot. The sun was singling me out and purposefully trying to sabotage me. I had precious few sips of water left and two full laps in front of me. And then I started feeling hunger. I was about to crash the Jenkins family reunion (which was also at the park) and steal some Watermelon or at least a fried drumstick. (Yeah, I said it!) I was running on empty and dehydrated. By the time I was on my last leg, I was quite certain everyone had passed me. I was completely out of water. I tried to talk myself down. I was not out there to compete with anyone. I wasn’t even really competing with myself. I signed up for this triathlon a week ago. It was supposed to be a way for me to measure my progress and see what an Olympic Distance was about before the one in Chicago, which is the real race I’m training for. But there is something so disheartening about being last, especially for someone as competitive as me.
During the last transition, I lost all pretenses of trying to be fast. The gig was up. All the Sprint Distance triathletes were hanging in the cabana, smokin’ and jokin’. What was wrong with me? I could have been smokin’ and jokin’ too!!! Stupid, stupid girl. I swallowed a banana in two bites and downed a cup of water while my dad cheered me on. He had just completed his first triathlon! He got 4th in his age group and his run was the fastest by two minutes. I was motivated. My dad wouldn’t have done this triathlon without seeing me do it. I won’t call myself a hero, but for lack of a better word, I’ll use it. I was a HERO. I could do this! I run six miles three days a week. Every week. All I had to do was go out there and do what I do. My last triathlon I ran a 5k in a 9:12 pace. Maybe I wouldn’t be that fast, but a 10:00 pace was certainly not out of my capabilities.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Hmmm. How to describe? Imagine pouring gasoline over yourself and then lighting a match and then being on fire and realizing that you are on fire because you poured gasoline over yourself and lit a match. That might be a fair way to describe the following event.
It didn’t take me half a mile to realize that I was going to be in trouble. The heat was radiating off the ground. My forehead was 17,000 degrees. Celsius! I just wasn’t having fun out there. I work out so hard every week and I love it. And I’m not just talking about the physical results. Elle Woods said it best,
‘Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands, they just don’t.’
I am a really happy person. When I push myself to get stronger and better it’s like everything is okay in the world. Everything that I’m putting in at that moment will come back to me. I feel amazing and inspired and unstoppable and it keeps me coming back for more. Not today.
I’m reading “Born to Run. A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen.” It’s about the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico. They are the fastest people in the world and run hundreds of miles in one shot, with smiles on their faces. They are motivated by sheer love and enjoyment of the sport. They don’t care about how big their butt is, endorsement deals or recognition. Running is a way of life for them. Well, it’s not for me. Over the last year, I have come to really enjoy running, because I’ve gotten (by my standards) good at it. But when I was on that course today, my body was giving out on me. It wasn’t fun and I didn’t want to be there. It didn’t matter if I had a flat stomach or a tight ass. None of it was worth it. I wanted to go home and eat a blueberry pie. With ice cream.
Two miles in, I saw one of the professional triathletes running with a huge smile on her face. She was almost done. I wanted to punch her in the mouth. Then the worst thing happened. Gulp. It’s almost too humiliating to admit. I… walked. On a normal day I can get my heart rate from 172 to below 100 in less than a minute. But even when I was walking my heart rate was still above 160! I just wanted to find a shaded tree and lay under it. It was the feeling of pure shame. I thought, on more than one occasion, of finding a ride and disappearing from the race. I imagined a life where I slept in on Sundays and watched Lifetime Original Movies in bed and never EVER worked out or moved a muscle that I didn’t need to.
I finished the race. I ran through the finish line. Of course when I say “ran,” I really mean trotted. By the end, there was nothing left for me to give. I saw black spots and thought I was going to faint and had to sit down with my hands over my head and my head between my knees.
This was my third triathlon. The first two I completed left me feeling euphoric. Today I felt overwhelmed. I thought about what lay ahead of me. I thought about how miserable every second of that run was. I knew I would have to do it again in August, but next time would be for real. Despite all of my training, 10 hours a week, every week, it was simply not enough. What the hell kind of monster do I have to become to finish in Chicago without walking? How many pounds do I have to lose? How many miles do I need to add? How many two-a-days or three-a-days will I have to do? It is just all so overwhelming.
Those who write down their goals are a kazillion times more likely to accomplish them (I researched that figure. “Kazillion” is accurate.). I said I would finish that race in Chicago and I will. Moreover, I’ll do whatever it takes to get to the point where I don’t have to walk for any part of those 6.2 miles. I’m just incredibly sad that I’m not going to love it.
So, I finished dead last. My dreams of Iron Glory were shattered. But lest you forget whose blog this is, I was absolutely, hands down the prettiest person there. Male or female. So I do get a gold. Just sayin…
I did not mind the fact that I started out swimming in the Detroit River. When I waded my way through to the starting line, every step was like Russian roulette. The river bottom was a mixture of trash, mud, wild underwater growth, and I don’t know if it was a plastic lining covering the floor bed or illegal hazardous waste dumping, but everything felt like slime. With every step I thought:
‘Will this be the step that my foot lands on an AIDS infected syringe? Nope. How about now? Nope. How about…”
I didn’t even become discouraged when I swallowed a mouth full of water, thinking at worst that any child I have will be born with a third eye or at best maybe I’ll end up with some kind of really cool stomach virus for an entire week! (That would really be such a great diet. I can’t believe pharma companies haven’t marketed this yet.)
The swim was actually fine. Because it was an Olympic Distance, my heat went last and there were only 60 of us (men and women of all age groups started together). I finished in a time that I was satisfied with. Granted, most people were already out of the water, but there still a few people trying to catch me.
I got on the bike, which is usually my worst leg and I felt OK. I had trained on this course before doing five laps, but today I only had to do four. Easy Breezy. I continued to feel that way up until the 3rd lap. It was hot. Too hot. The sun was singling me out and purposefully trying to sabotage me. I had precious few sips of water left and two full laps in front of me. And then I started feeling hunger. I was about to crash the Jenkins family reunion (which was also at the park) and steal some Watermelon or at least a fried drumstick. (Yeah, I said it!) I was running on empty and dehydrated. By the time I was on my last leg, I was quite certain everyone had passed me. I was completely out of water. I tried to talk myself down. I was not out there to compete with anyone. I wasn’t even really competing with myself. I signed up for this triathlon a week ago. It was supposed to be a way for me to measure my progress and see what an Olympic Distance was about before the one in Chicago, which is the real race I’m training for. But there is something so disheartening about being last, especially for someone as competitive as me.
During the last transition, I lost all pretenses of trying to be fast. The gig was up. All the Sprint Distance triathletes were hanging in the cabana, smokin’ and jokin’. What was wrong with me? I could have been smokin’ and jokin’ too!!! Stupid, stupid girl. I swallowed a banana in two bites and downed a cup of water while my dad cheered me on. He had just completed his first triathlon! He got 4th in his age group and his run was the fastest by two minutes. I was motivated. My dad wouldn’t have done this triathlon without seeing me do it. I won’t call myself a hero, but for lack of a better word, I’ll use it. I was a HERO. I could do this! I run six miles three days a week. Every week. All I had to do was go out there and do what I do. My last triathlon I ran a 5k in a 9:12 pace. Maybe I wouldn’t be that fast, but a 10:00 pace was certainly not out of my capabilities.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Hmmm. How to describe? Imagine pouring gasoline over yourself and then lighting a match and then being on fire and realizing that you are on fire because you poured gasoline over yourself and lit a match. That might be a fair way to describe the following event.
It didn’t take me half a mile to realize that I was going to be in trouble. The heat was radiating off the ground. My forehead was 17,000 degrees. Celsius! I just wasn’t having fun out there. I work out so hard every week and I love it. And I’m not just talking about the physical results. Elle Woods said it best,
‘Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands, they just don’t.’
I am a really happy person. When I push myself to get stronger and better it’s like everything is okay in the world. Everything that I’m putting in at that moment will come back to me. I feel amazing and inspired and unstoppable and it keeps me coming back for more. Not today.
I’m reading “Born to Run. A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen.” It’s about the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico. They are the fastest people in the world and run hundreds of miles in one shot, with smiles on their faces. They are motivated by sheer love and enjoyment of the sport. They don’t care about how big their butt is, endorsement deals or recognition. Running is a way of life for them. Well, it’s not for me. Over the last year, I have come to really enjoy running, because I’ve gotten (by my standards) good at it. But when I was on that course today, my body was giving out on me. It wasn’t fun and I didn’t want to be there. It didn’t matter if I had a flat stomach or a tight ass. None of it was worth it. I wanted to go home and eat a blueberry pie. With ice cream.
Two miles in, I saw one of the professional triathletes running with a huge smile on her face. She was almost done. I wanted to punch her in the mouth. Then the worst thing happened. Gulp. It’s almost too humiliating to admit. I… walked. On a normal day I can get my heart rate from 172 to below 100 in less than a minute. But even when I was walking my heart rate was still above 160! I just wanted to find a shaded tree and lay under it. It was the feeling of pure shame. I thought, on more than one occasion, of finding a ride and disappearing from the race. I imagined a life where I slept in on Sundays and watched Lifetime Original Movies in bed and never EVER worked out or moved a muscle that I didn’t need to.
I finished the race. I ran through the finish line. Of course when I say “ran,” I really mean trotted. By the end, there was nothing left for me to give. I saw black spots and thought I was going to faint and had to sit down with my hands over my head and my head between my knees.
This was my third triathlon. The first two I completed left me feeling euphoric. Today I felt overwhelmed. I thought about what lay ahead of me. I thought about how miserable every second of that run was. I knew I would have to do it again in August, but next time would be for real. Despite all of my training, 10 hours a week, every week, it was simply not enough. What the hell kind of monster do I have to become to finish in Chicago without walking? How many pounds do I have to lose? How many miles do I need to add? How many two-a-days or three-a-days will I have to do? It is just all so overwhelming.
Those who write down their goals are a kazillion times more likely to accomplish them (I researched that figure. “Kazillion” is accurate.). I said I would finish that race in Chicago and I will. Moreover, I’ll do whatever it takes to get to the point where I don’t have to walk for any part of those 6.2 miles. I’m just incredibly sad that I’m not going to love it.
So, I finished dead last. My dreams of Iron Glory were shattered. But lest you forget whose blog this is, I was absolutely, hands down the prettiest person there. Male or female. So I do get a gold. Just sayin…
Friday, July 2, 2010
Red Beans and Rice Didn't Miss Her...
I’ve been writing this entry in my head for months. The general tone of my blog has been pretty raw – I rarely hold back, which just about sums up my personality. But with this topic, I will proceed with a certain amount of… trepidation. Don’t judge me.
I have dated two types of men in this world: Chaz Michael Michaels and Tyrone. Chaz Michael Michaels is white. He played lacrosse in college (insert random white sport: tennis, swimming, polo…). He summers in Cape Cod and plays beer pong with his dudes for fun. He listens to Smash Mouth or Radio Head or whatever mainstream band gets played on the local alternative station. Chaz Michael Michaels likes skinny white girls. Beautiful skinny white girls with bodies like a 12 year-old boy. Chaz Michael Michaels thinks Kiera Knightly is perfection.
And then there’s Tyrone. (Call him!) Tyrone is black. He played football in college (or basketball, track, etc.). He pledged to whichever fraternity was popular on his campus. He listens to Jay Z or Gucci Mane or whatever censored artist is playing on the rap stations. Tyrone summered ‘round the block growing up, but now he kicks it with his homies in Chicago (insert major metropolitan city). Most of all, Tyrone loves black women. Full, thick, curvy beautiful black women. Beyonce Knowles has this in Spades.
So, where does that leave me? I am clearly not white, but as a Latina I am technically not “black,” or African American either. Yet, I've been attracted to and wanted by both these stereotypes.
I try to plant myself firmly in the center of Knowles/Knightly arena, not wanting to limit my options, but mostly because I am unsatisfied if everyone doesn’t adore me. But I am one hot dog away from losing Chaz Michael Michaels interest (at least the ones who aren’t stuck on the “white” part of “skinny white girls”). The conundrum is that I’m also about three cardio sessions and a stick of celery away from getting glossed over by Tyrone.
I work for a multi-cultural advertising firm in Detroit. For the first time in my life I am in an environment with more black people than white. In fact, my entire team happens to be black, except (as they often point out) for me. My co-workers are my friends. We hang out. We crack jokes. We talk. We discuss… things. For instance, we recently had a discussion on the sexiest feature of the opposite sex. Invariably, for black men, it is the gluteus maximus. Listening to the way they describe it is humorous of course, but also a little unexpected. To er, summarize, they (and clearly my colleagues are speaking for all black men everywhere), like to be able to, um, slap a girl’s “buttocks” and see it ripple. They don’t care if it has cellulite. I reminded them that cellulite is of course the little dimples that resemble cottage cheese randomly dispersed on one’s backside, thigh, and hamstring region (you know, the reason I spend hours at the gym!). They remained undeterred. Bottom line, for Tyrone, no ass is a deal breaker.
I have had a lifetime of experiences with Chaz Michael Michaels. I grew up with Chaz. I went to college and grad school with Chaz. I have had long-term relationships with Chaz. Chaz Michael Michaels wants to bounce a quarter on a girl’s buttocks and see it bounce right on back up (no ripple, please). Skinny. Firm. Tight. This is Chaz Michael Michaels Holy Grail, his reason for living. In fact, no ass at all is just fine. Bottom line, for Chaz Michael Michaels, too much ass is a deal breaker.
It seems so simple, doesn’t it? I can run away with the likes of Idris Elba, eat what I want (within reason) and be appreciated and desired for having a shapely body. But damn it if there’s not something about Bradley Cooper!
I joke about this, but subconsciously, part of what draws my hand to reach for Smart Water over Aquafina (which is cheaper) is my desire to look like Jenniffer Anniston. Not in terms of being a white girl, but in terms of being SKINNY. My job is advertising and there is a reason I get paid… it works! I don’t think I would be as likely to reach for that water bottle if, say, Jennifer Hudson was the spokesman (but I did buy her album!). Even if we talk about mainstream America’s ideal of beautiful women of color, Zoe Saldana and Thandie Newton would be on the forefront of that list. Both these girls need a few Twinkies and a thick creamy milkshake. They’re certainly capable of attracting a Bradley Cooper, but Jay Z would rather date Rosie O’Donnell than grab onto their bony frame.
I strive to be skinny because that’s what I know. If you’ve read any of my blog, you know that I am very happy with the way that I look. After all, I am a triathlete. But dang if I wasn’t 10 pounds lighter, I would be settin’ it off! And summering in Cape Cod with… Chaz Michael Michaels. The problem, of course, is that Tyrone would be more interested in Lafonda than Lonelli. So it seems, and maybe for the rest of my life, I will teeter between a hot dog and three cardio sessions and a celery stick.
I have dated two types of men in this world: Chaz Michael Michaels and Tyrone. Chaz Michael Michaels is white. He played lacrosse in college (insert random white sport: tennis, swimming, polo…). He summers in Cape Cod and plays beer pong with his dudes for fun. He listens to Smash Mouth or Radio Head or whatever mainstream band gets played on the local alternative station. Chaz Michael Michaels likes skinny white girls. Beautiful skinny white girls with bodies like a 12 year-old boy. Chaz Michael Michaels thinks Kiera Knightly is perfection.
And then there’s Tyrone. (Call him!) Tyrone is black. He played football in college (or basketball, track, etc.). He pledged to whichever fraternity was popular on his campus. He listens to Jay Z or Gucci Mane or whatever censored artist is playing on the rap stations. Tyrone summered ‘round the block growing up, but now he kicks it with his homies in Chicago (insert major metropolitan city). Most of all, Tyrone loves black women. Full, thick, curvy beautiful black women. Beyonce Knowles has this in Spades.
So, where does that leave me? I am clearly not white, but as a Latina I am technically not “black,” or African American either. Yet, I've been attracted to and wanted by both these stereotypes.
I try to plant myself firmly in the center of Knowles/Knightly arena, not wanting to limit my options, but mostly because I am unsatisfied if everyone doesn’t adore me. But I am one hot dog away from losing Chaz Michael Michaels interest (at least the ones who aren’t stuck on the “white” part of “skinny white girls”). The conundrum is that I’m also about three cardio sessions and a stick of celery away from getting glossed over by Tyrone.
I work for a multi-cultural advertising firm in Detroit. For the first time in my life I am in an environment with more black people than white. In fact, my entire team happens to be black, except (as they often point out) for me. My co-workers are my friends. We hang out. We crack jokes. We talk. We discuss… things. For instance, we recently had a discussion on the sexiest feature of the opposite sex. Invariably, for black men, it is the gluteus maximus. Listening to the way they describe it is humorous of course, but also a little unexpected. To er, summarize, they (and clearly my colleagues are speaking for all black men everywhere), like to be able to, um, slap a girl’s “buttocks” and see it ripple. They don’t care if it has cellulite. I reminded them that cellulite is of course the little dimples that resemble cottage cheese randomly dispersed on one’s backside, thigh, and hamstring region (you know, the reason I spend hours at the gym!). They remained undeterred. Bottom line, for Tyrone, no ass is a deal breaker.
I have had a lifetime of experiences with Chaz Michael Michaels. I grew up with Chaz. I went to college and grad school with Chaz. I have had long-term relationships with Chaz. Chaz Michael Michaels wants to bounce a quarter on a girl’s buttocks and see it bounce right on back up (no ripple, please). Skinny. Firm. Tight. This is Chaz Michael Michaels Holy Grail, his reason for living. In fact, no ass at all is just fine. Bottom line, for Chaz Michael Michaels, too much ass is a deal breaker.
It seems so simple, doesn’t it? I can run away with the likes of Idris Elba, eat what I want (within reason) and be appreciated and desired for having a shapely body. But damn it if there’s not something about Bradley Cooper!
I joke about this, but subconsciously, part of what draws my hand to reach for Smart Water over Aquafina (which is cheaper) is my desire to look like Jenniffer Anniston. Not in terms of being a white girl, but in terms of being SKINNY. My job is advertising and there is a reason I get paid… it works! I don’t think I would be as likely to reach for that water bottle if, say, Jennifer Hudson was the spokesman (but I did buy her album!). Even if we talk about mainstream America’s ideal of beautiful women of color, Zoe Saldana and Thandie Newton would be on the forefront of that list. Both these girls need a few Twinkies and a thick creamy milkshake. They’re certainly capable of attracting a Bradley Cooper, but Jay Z would rather date Rosie O’Donnell than grab onto their bony frame.
I strive to be skinny because that’s what I know. If you’ve read any of my blog, you know that I am very happy with the way that I look. After all, I am a triathlete. But dang if I wasn’t 10 pounds lighter, I would be settin’ it off! And summering in Cape Cod with… Chaz Michael Michaels. The problem, of course, is that Tyrone would be more interested in Lafonda than Lonelli. So it seems, and maybe for the rest of my life, I will teeter between a hot dog and three cardio sessions and a celery stick.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Help! Is there a triathlete in the building? Why, Yes. Yes, there is.
I love that one of my hobbies is triathlons. It sounds very cool to me. I’m proud to say that I am a triathlete. And as of last Sunday, I am. I mean, officially. I was in a real race and I know the secret hand shake (which believe me is way better than the Skull and Bones hand shake. Don’t ask me how I know.). The best part about it is that last Sunday, surprisingly, turned out to be one of the best days of my life.
I woke up at 5AM despite a mostly sleepless, anxious night. But instead of feeling groggy and grumpy I woke feeling energized and excited. And prepared. Besides laying out everything I needed the night before, I knew I was ready for this race. I decided in March that I would be a triathlete. I put in hours of training, almost every single day (well, except for that one time…) and I was ready to show myself what I could do. I was on the road at 0525, and I had the entire city of Detroit to myself. Eventually, I started to see other racers on the road, identified by the bikes strapped to their trunks and the “26.2” stickers on their bumpers. [Note to self: pick one of those up so I will really fit in at the next triathlon.] The point is, there was a line of us speeding together, heading to the same destination, and it was like we could feel the camaraderie building before the race had even begun. I was already having fun. By the time I pulled into the park it was 0630. I drove past a stream of cars and started feeling nervous. Extremely nervous. ‘Which way to the bathroom’ nervous.
As it turns out, triathlon competitions are the friendliest places on earth. I had heard this before, but I didn’t realize how supportive, helpful and cool everyone would be. I showed up to the park by myself. Twenty minutes later I had made fast friends with some of the athletes, many of whom offered helpful tips for my first race. We pumped each other up as a group before our waves were called into the lake.
I got into the water and my whole body was tense with emotions. The horn went off and it took me less than 60 seconds to ask myself what I had gotten into. I was wearing a wetsuit, which adds a surprising amount of buoyancy. My mother, who could drown in 5 feet of water, would float with one of those things on. But I was scared. I was getting kicked in the face, elbowed in the face, and swam over. I was kicking people in the face, elbowing people in the face, and apparently swimming under them. And for the first time in my life I became incredibly polite and started apologizing and wasting my breath. What had those people done to me? I am not that nice!
I couldn’t see anything without lifting my head out of the water and staring into the sun looking for a bright orange buoy to swim towards. My breathing was out of control and oh Jesus, I still had to bike 20 kilometers and run 5 kilometers. I swam as hard and as fast as I could. I wasn’t really competing with anyone. I just wanted to make it back to the shore and get my stupid feet on the stupid ground. Whose idea was this anyway?
I finally got out of the water and felt exhausted. It took me 11:22 to complete the swim, but it felt like I was already 40 minutes into an intense cardio session. I heard my family cheering for me and I felt this overwhelming need to impress them. I mean, it was Father’s Day and they drove an hour just to watch me race. I couldn’t disappoint them.
I set out for my ride and was still just racing myself. It felt good. When I took my first down hill I was going 34.2mph. It was brilliant. Scary as hell, but absolutely amazing. People give Michigan a bad name but this course had 13 miles of beautiful scenery, fresh air, and friendly locals standing at the end of their long driveways cheering all 550 of us on. Of course, all the hills I went down I had to come back up. The second half of this leg (though the exact same road) was a little less beautiful. My main focus was the pavement as I struggled up those ridiculous hills. I mean, honestly, what is the point of hills like this? My next race will be in Kansas. Do they even have lakes there?
At this point I did start competing with others. I tried to pick specific people out and get them. You know me, and my dislike for skinny bitches… I found one. And she was listening to an MP3 player, which was a blatant infraction of Article 24, Paragraph 6, Clause 3. Well, not today, skinny bitch. Not today. I beat her up the hill and felt euphoric. That one was for all the women who eat red beans and rice for dinner. At the home stretch I gave it everything I had and that skinny bitch passed me. And there was not a damn thing I could do about it.
I got back to the transition area and threw up in my mouth (you’re welcome). I was light headed and sick and it was pure acid bile. If I let myself throw up I wasn’t sure I would be able to stop. And then I thought about all the other racers and made a command decision. Get back in my belly! I took off for my run and saw that I passed Skinny Bitch. Eat it sucka! She started gaining on me and I kept up with her fueled by a little Jay Z coming off of her iPod. Wait a minute! Skinny bitches don’t listen to Jay Z. Shouldn’t she be listening to Jewel or James Taylor? Then Skinny Bitch took off and I let her go. Cheater!
I cannot begin to describe to you the pure exhaustion I felt at this leg. There were hills (slight as they were), but the event description said FLAT ROAD. They also promised there would be water stations at every mile marker. Liars! Cheats and Liars, all of them. By the time I did get my water, (fine! At the mile and a half mark), I grabbed two cups, thirsty and overheated, I threw one cup of water in my face. This was not a good idea. The water actually went up my nose. In the midst of my exhaustion, I thought I was going to drown. As if the last hour had all been an illusion and I was still in the lake. Help!
When I finished the race I knew I left everything I had on the course. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even bend over to remove the strap from my ankle. I couldn’t speak and had to mime drinking to be pointed in the direction of the water station. But I did it and knowing that felt incredible.
What I love about having completed this triathlon is that I set a goal for myself and I achieved it. I mentioned in an earlier blog that one has to become the person one wants to be, or accept the person one is. I feel like I am becoming the person I want to be. To me, it is a process. I finished a sprint triathlon, but it’s more than that. I know I am capable of pushing my body and I want to know what’s next. I am signed up for two more sprint triathlons this summer and changed my Chicago triathlon to an Olympic Distance, twice what I did on Sunday. I thought the sprint was all I could do, but now that I’ve done it, I know I can do more.
While I want to feel fulfilled, I’m not sure that I ever want to feel content. I hope I will not stop wanting more… of anything. I think about how this pertains to my life in general: in my personal life and desire to find passion, friendship, and love with another person; to my intellect and desire to continue to learn, experience, and improve; and in my career and desire to be innovative, sharp and financially secure. Maybe it seems bizarre that I can get all of that from participating in one simple race. But this triathlon has reignited my drive to be a better person, and not just in the shape of my legs or size of my pants. I see it influencing many parts of my life. And I hope that by writing about it, I have influenced some part of yours.
I woke up at 5AM despite a mostly sleepless, anxious night. But instead of feeling groggy and grumpy I woke feeling energized and excited. And prepared. Besides laying out everything I needed the night before, I knew I was ready for this race. I decided in March that I would be a triathlete. I put in hours of training, almost every single day (well, except for that one time…) and I was ready to show myself what I could do. I was on the road at 0525, and I had the entire city of Detroit to myself. Eventually, I started to see other racers on the road, identified by the bikes strapped to their trunks and the “26.2” stickers on their bumpers. [Note to self: pick one of those up so I will really fit in at the next triathlon.] The point is, there was a line of us speeding together, heading to the same destination, and it was like we could feel the camaraderie building before the race had even begun. I was already having fun. By the time I pulled into the park it was 0630. I drove past a stream of cars and started feeling nervous. Extremely nervous. ‘Which way to the bathroom’ nervous.
As it turns out, triathlon competitions are the friendliest places on earth. I had heard this before, but I didn’t realize how supportive, helpful and cool everyone would be. I showed up to the park by myself. Twenty minutes later I had made fast friends with some of the athletes, many of whom offered helpful tips for my first race. We pumped each other up as a group before our waves were called into the lake.
I got into the water and my whole body was tense with emotions. The horn went off and it took me less than 60 seconds to ask myself what I had gotten into. I was wearing a wetsuit, which adds a surprising amount of buoyancy. My mother, who could drown in 5 feet of water, would float with one of those things on. But I was scared. I was getting kicked in the face, elbowed in the face, and swam over. I was kicking people in the face, elbowing people in the face, and apparently swimming under them. And for the first time in my life I became incredibly polite and started apologizing and wasting my breath. What had those people done to me? I am not that nice!
I couldn’t see anything without lifting my head out of the water and staring into the sun looking for a bright orange buoy to swim towards. My breathing was out of control and oh Jesus, I still had to bike 20 kilometers and run 5 kilometers. I swam as hard and as fast as I could. I wasn’t really competing with anyone. I just wanted to make it back to the shore and get my stupid feet on the stupid ground. Whose idea was this anyway?
I finally got out of the water and felt exhausted. It took me 11:22 to complete the swim, but it felt like I was already 40 minutes into an intense cardio session. I heard my family cheering for me and I felt this overwhelming need to impress them. I mean, it was Father’s Day and they drove an hour just to watch me race. I couldn’t disappoint them.
I set out for my ride and was still just racing myself. It felt good. When I took my first down hill I was going 34.2mph. It was brilliant. Scary as hell, but absolutely amazing. People give Michigan a bad name but this course had 13 miles of beautiful scenery, fresh air, and friendly locals standing at the end of their long driveways cheering all 550 of us on. Of course, all the hills I went down I had to come back up. The second half of this leg (though the exact same road) was a little less beautiful. My main focus was the pavement as I struggled up those ridiculous hills. I mean, honestly, what is the point of hills like this? My next race will be in Kansas. Do they even have lakes there?
At this point I did start competing with others. I tried to pick specific people out and get them. You know me, and my dislike for skinny bitches… I found one. And she was listening to an MP3 player, which was a blatant infraction of Article 24, Paragraph 6, Clause 3. Well, not today, skinny bitch. Not today. I beat her up the hill and felt euphoric. That one was for all the women who eat red beans and rice for dinner. At the home stretch I gave it everything I had and that skinny bitch passed me. And there was not a damn thing I could do about it.
I got back to the transition area and threw up in my mouth (you’re welcome). I was light headed and sick and it was pure acid bile. If I let myself throw up I wasn’t sure I would be able to stop. And then I thought about all the other racers and made a command decision. Get back in my belly! I took off for my run and saw that I passed Skinny Bitch. Eat it sucka! She started gaining on me and I kept up with her fueled by a little Jay Z coming off of her iPod. Wait a minute! Skinny bitches don’t listen to Jay Z. Shouldn’t she be listening to Jewel or James Taylor? Then Skinny Bitch took off and I let her go. Cheater!
I cannot begin to describe to you the pure exhaustion I felt at this leg. There were hills (slight as they were), but the event description said FLAT ROAD. They also promised there would be water stations at every mile marker. Liars! Cheats and Liars, all of them. By the time I did get my water, (fine! At the mile and a half mark), I grabbed two cups, thirsty and overheated, I threw one cup of water in my face. This was not a good idea. The water actually went up my nose. In the midst of my exhaustion, I thought I was going to drown. As if the last hour had all been an illusion and I was still in the lake. Help!
When I finished the race I knew I left everything I had on the course. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even bend over to remove the strap from my ankle. I couldn’t speak and had to mime drinking to be pointed in the direction of the water station. But I did it and knowing that felt incredible.
What I love about having completed this triathlon is that I set a goal for myself and I achieved it. I mentioned in an earlier blog that one has to become the person one wants to be, or accept the person one is. I feel like I am becoming the person I want to be. To me, it is a process. I finished a sprint triathlon, but it’s more than that. I know I am capable of pushing my body and I want to know what’s next. I am signed up for two more sprint triathlons this summer and changed my Chicago triathlon to an Olympic Distance, twice what I did on Sunday. I thought the sprint was all I could do, but now that I’ve done it, I know I can do more.
While I want to feel fulfilled, I’m not sure that I ever want to feel content. I hope I will not stop wanting more… of anything. I think about how this pertains to my life in general: in my personal life and desire to find passion, friendship, and love with another person; to my intellect and desire to continue to learn, experience, and improve; and in my career and desire to be innovative, sharp and financially secure. Maybe it seems bizarre that I can get all of that from participating in one simple race. But this triathlon has reignited my drive to be a better person, and not just in the shape of my legs or size of my pants. I see it influencing many parts of my life. And I hope that by writing about it, I have influenced some part of yours.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Art of Being Not Hot: A Heroine’s Tale
There is something about rolling out of bed on a Saturday morning, in the same sweats from the night before, brushing my teeth and heading out the house that is completely liberating. Eh, who am I kidding? Sometimes, I reach for the pack of gum and skip the pit-stop and inevitable peek in the mirror altogether. Destination: grocery store. List: Fruit Loops, skim milk, and Tropicana Orange Juice (with some pulp). Reasons: My refrigerator consists of a bottle of ketchup, a six pack of club soda, and 3 month-old baby carrots that have actually gotten soft to the touch; and orange juice just doesn’t tastes as good after brushing. I live in a pretty small town and the people at my local market know me by face, if not by name. It’s not unusual to run into a high school classmate or one of my sister’s college-age friends home for the weekend. But I don’t care. I mean, I literally don’t care anytime before noon on a Saturday or Sunday morning. It’s not hot, but give me five minutes, a tube of lip gloss and a couple of brushes (one for my hair and one for my teeth) and it’s on like Donkey Kong. Just sayin…
I do, however, care about what I look like when I am training for my triathlon. Let’s be real. This triathlon has nothing to do with me living a healthy lifestyle. It has everything to do with looking like someone who does triathlons – minus the ridiculous she-man shoulders (because that’s definitely not hot). My outfits are always perfectly coordinated. Swim: I have a range of one piece competitive swim wear options in my arsenal, all picked to compliment my skin tone, and cut in an angle that makes my legs look longer and leaner than a few of my poorly chosen bikini bottoms. Bike: Well, I’ve already told you about the Holy Grail of Bicycles. Run: I never leave the house without considerable thought into which color and cut of Nike top will match with my Nike running pants of the day. I place my hair in a meticulous pony-tail that gives me the look of sporty youth. And then I’m off…
SWIM:
I had to wait until Memorial Day to start training for this portion of my race. I already belong to two gyms (one near my house, and one in my office building 30 miles away). There was no way I was going to spend one more dollar to have my hair attacked by a black woman’s kryptonite (chlorine) one minute earlier than necessary. I got to the pool the first day it opened. I made it there early enough to even out some tan lines, but I did not jump into the child-infested pool to swim laps during the day. I have it on good authority that [they] pee in the pool and the water does in fact, not turn green. Instead, I listened to their wretched little cries of “It’s not fair,” “It’s my turn,” “But you said!” …all while trying to catch up on my latest summer pool-side novel. Niños, what on earth do you have to complain about? When was the last time you paid a bill, made a life-changing decision or thought about what that ice-cream cone would do to your hips? Let me read my trash novel in peace!
So, I left the park, went for a run (more on this in a moment), and then headed back to the pool after the sun went down. When I arrived, most of the bottom feeders and trolls had gone home for the evening to watch cartoons, or do whatever it is that children do with their time. It had turned into a Michigan, ‘I’m on the lake without any sun and I’m freezing,’ kind of evening. I walked over to the deep-end which was completely empty and stood on the diving board, shivering, with goggles in hand. I turned to look at the 16 year old life guard and remembered when I was in that exact seat all those years ago, vigilantly protecting the pool from would-be-drowners, but mostly blowing my whistle to tell children to WALK, not run. My biggest concern was where I would go to college and what outfit I would wear Monday morning. (Well, that’s still a pretty big concern.) I kept staring at this guard, on the edge of the pool, armed with goose bumps, wondering what the hell happened to my youth when all of a sudden, a snot-nose 10 year old screams at me from across the pool,
“Are you going to jump in or what?!”
Is this a test? Lord, are you watching me? Does this kid want me to spank him with a Japanese Sword like the Black Mamba herself? Is he not aware of my general aversion to kids and know that I only need a reason, however slight, to go off? And then I jumped. Peer pressured by a child. Not hot.
BIKE
There actually aren’t enough words to describe the not-hotness of being a cyclist. In fact, I am still thinking about the Christian Louboutin’s and Jimmy Choos I could have rocked in place of owning a bike whose very existence it seems is to humiliate me. First of all, my hair is sort of my “thing.” And to have to hide it under a helmet, and emerge on the other end with sweaty helmet hair… well, there’s just not a happy ending in that scenario. Secondly, the $100 pants that the salesman told me ‘I just had to buy’ (yes, this could have been half a dress at Club Monaco), have padding in the butt. PADDING. IN. THE. BUTT. As if a woman, especially a Latina, needs any more padding in the butt. Lastly, I have clip in shoes, which means that I can’t just put my feet on the ground whenever I want. I actually have to practice clipping in and out. And in the course of “practicing,” I have literally fallen straight over on my bike. Multiple times. As in first I was upright, and then I was on the ground… with a bike between my legs. And though on each occasion, I was alone, without a soul to witness my clumsiness, I was deeply embarrassed for myself. It was as if my inner 13 year-old was having an out of body experience, convulsing with laughter at my own humiliation. Well, nobody likes 13 year old girls anyway! Not hot.
And now for the coup de grace. RUN
I broke my first bone when I was 7 years old. I was playing dodge ball. It was my pinky finger that is now permanently crooked. The culprit was a ridiculous boy who I must assume is either in jail or working the fry-bin at McDonalds (the natural fate for anyone who crosses me). Since then, I have broken my wrist on two occasions, my arm, my knee (in multiple places), my foot, my ankle (both sides), torn my meniscus and my MCL, and have had my body held together with pins, staples, screws, stitches, plaster and tape. I was in a wheel chair - twice. The first instance I graduated from a wheel chair and moved on up to a walker with a handicapped accessory to accommodate the shape of the cast on my broken arm. I am not a warrior. I am a klutz. I once had a physical in the navy and when the doctor told me to stand on one leg he asked if I was drunk when I could barely perform this task. He gave me a breathalyzer.
Last Saturday was one of the first hot days in the Big D. I spent most of the afternoon at the pool (hanging with the bottom feeders and trolls). The day was very sunny and exceptionally hot. I wanted to go for a run and threw on my black Nike running pants and decided I was going to wear my sports bra as my top. A white one. And since I am training to be a triathlete, and therefore can claim to have a traithlete body, I said, “You’re welcome, Grosse Pointe.”
I set out with my Sporty Spice pony-tail, and my jammin’-est tunes on my ipod-touch. Half a mile in, I passed my old high school and it was actually the beginning of Senior Prom. I saw the looks on the 18 year old boys’ faces as I passed and thought, ‘Still got it!’
Half a mile later, I was running on the lake. I got the gratuitous car honks and saw a couple of cars swerve, which made me feel just like Selma Hayek in Desperado except with a Mid-West accent (which is just as sexy as a Mexican accent, right?!) Err… :/
I was feeling really good about myself. My songs were pumping me up, I set a great pace, my lungs felt good, and oh! Is this a car full of boys about to check me out? Ye…
And then it happened.
As with all of my accidents, time was manipulated. That way, I could experience everything in slow motion, and be certain not to miss an ounce of humiliation. I could point out the name, make and license number of every car on the road in either direction, all of whose attention was solely focused on me and my impending disaster. I could see where birds were over head. I could point out squirrels in trees (laughing haughtily at me). And I could see the color of every sail in the water, whose captains were at that moment staring at my misfortune through binoculars and calling their friends to come and see. I knew what was coming and I could not do a thing to stop it. And while yes, I was running on a flat, smooth surface, my right foot caught on what could only be the ground… or my left foot.
So, at this point, my left foot was up in the air in full stride, my arms were thrown up in front of me, and my ridiculous smug look was replaced with the look of shock and fear and open mouthful of “Oh Shuga!” My momentum pushed me forward so it looked like I was sliding into first. And then I made contact with the ground. The stupid, nasty, dirty ground that penetrated through my running pants and gave fresh wounds to my already surgery scarred knee and scraped my shin to leave me with matching scars from that time that I tripped over a tree stump in 8th grade.
When it was over, it played like highlights from ESPN Sports Center in my head. I saw myself sliding in and out of the ground like I was being played on a big screen. I slid in, but before I touched the ground, someone would rewind me so that I was all of a sudden reversing, starting the scene over and over again while the sportscasters made fun and pointed out how my expression changed in every frame. Then, mercifully, the replay mode stopped, and I actually hit the ground. The gravel ingrained on my sweaty stomach and dirt stains on my white sports bra had me rethinking the ‘no shirt’ idea. And there I lay, on the side of Lake Shore Drive with every eye on me. Wounded. Stung. Humiliated. I got up as quickly as I could, but not before I saw everyone laughing at me, pointing and staring like that 13 year old girl nobody likes. Well, if this were “Carrie,” they’d all be locked in a gym with pigs' blood on their face. Then we’d see who got the last laugh.
With 3.5 miles left to go, each mile was slower than the one before and every minute was unbearable. The sun was beating down. I was dehydrated and felt like I was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. I wiped my face and mouth with my hands and realized that my hands were bloody, and now my face and mouth were likely blood stained as well. I imagined myself as part of the Twilight Saga, no doubt evening a score with a certain hubris ridden squirrel. Then, as if the animal kingdom wanted to retaliate, I felt something knock me on the head. I looked around and I promise you, a gigantic bird, probably an eagle, but perhaps a Pterodactyl, hid behind the bushes. He dropped an acorn on my head and then hid from me! I finished my run, knowing that every person I passed was in on my secret, laughing. Not hot, people. Not hot.
Now, I realize that my account may have you thinking of me as the villain and not the heroine. I don’t automatically love children. I cannot be trusted with wild life. And I tend to make a few too many positive comments in my favor (which let’s face it, are all true). But this is my blog, so you have to cheer for me. It’s the rules…
I do, however, care about what I look like when I am training for my triathlon. Let’s be real. This triathlon has nothing to do with me living a healthy lifestyle. It has everything to do with looking like someone who does triathlons – minus the ridiculous she-man shoulders (because that’s definitely not hot). My outfits are always perfectly coordinated. Swim: I have a range of one piece competitive swim wear options in my arsenal, all picked to compliment my skin tone, and cut in an angle that makes my legs look longer and leaner than a few of my poorly chosen bikini bottoms. Bike: Well, I’ve already told you about the Holy Grail of Bicycles. Run: I never leave the house without considerable thought into which color and cut of Nike top will match with my Nike running pants of the day. I place my hair in a meticulous pony-tail that gives me the look of sporty youth. And then I’m off…
SWIM:
I had to wait until Memorial Day to start training for this portion of my race. I already belong to two gyms (one near my house, and one in my office building 30 miles away). There was no way I was going to spend one more dollar to have my hair attacked by a black woman’s kryptonite (chlorine) one minute earlier than necessary. I got to the pool the first day it opened. I made it there early enough to even out some tan lines, but I did not jump into the child-infested pool to swim laps during the day. I have it on good authority that [they] pee in the pool and the water does in fact, not turn green. Instead, I listened to their wretched little cries of “It’s not fair,” “It’s my turn,” “But you said!” …all while trying to catch up on my latest summer pool-side novel. Niños, what on earth do you have to complain about? When was the last time you paid a bill, made a life-changing decision or thought about what that ice-cream cone would do to your hips? Let me read my trash novel in peace!
So, I left the park, went for a run (more on this in a moment), and then headed back to the pool after the sun went down. When I arrived, most of the bottom feeders and trolls had gone home for the evening to watch cartoons, or do whatever it is that children do with their time. It had turned into a Michigan, ‘I’m on the lake without any sun and I’m freezing,’ kind of evening. I walked over to the deep-end which was completely empty and stood on the diving board, shivering, with goggles in hand. I turned to look at the 16 year old life guard and remembered when I was in that exact seat all those years ago, vigilantly protecting the pool from would-be-drowners, but mostly blowing my whistle to tell children to WALK, not run. My biggest concern was where I would go to college and what outfit I would wear Monday morning. (Well, that’s still a pretty big concern.) I kept staring at this guard, on the edge of the pool, armed with goose bumps, wondering what the hell happened to my youth when all of a sudden, a snot-nose 10 year old screams at me from across the pool,
“Are you going to jump in or what?!”
Is this a test? Lord, are you watching me? Does this kid want me to spank him with a Japanese Sword like the Black Mamba herself? Is he not aware of my general aversion to kids and know that I only need a reason, however slight, to go off? And then I jumped. Peer pressured by a child. Not hot.
BIKE
There actually aren’t enough words to describe the not-hotness of being a cyclist. In fact, I am still thinking about the Christian Louboutin’s and Jimmy Choos I could have rocked in place of owning a bike whose very existence it seems is to humiliate me. First of all, my hair is sort of my “thing.” And to have to hide it under a helmet, and emerge on the other end with sweaty helmet hair… well, there’s just not a happy ending in that scenario. Secondly, the $100 pants that the salesman told me ‘I just had to buy’ (yes, this could have been half a dress at Club Monaco), have padding in the butt. PADDING. IN. THE. BUTT. As if a woman, especially a Latina, needs any more padding in the butt. Lastly, I have clip in shoes, which means that I can’t just put my feet on the ground whenever I want. I actually have to practice clipping in and out. And in the course of “practicing,” I have literally fallen straight over on my bike. Multiple times. As in first I was upright, and then I was on the ground… with a bike between my legs. And though on each occasion, I was alone, without a soul to witness my clumsiness, I was deeply embarrassed for myself. It was as if my inner 13 year-old was having an out of body experience, convulsing with laughter at my own humiliation. Well, nobody likes 13 year old girls anyway! Not hot.
And now for the coup de grace. RUN
I broke my first bone when I was 7 years old. I was playing dodge ball. It was my pinky finger that is now permanently crooked. The culprit was a ridiculous boy who I must assume is either in jail or working the fry-bin at McDonalds (the natural fate for anyone who crosses me). Since then, I have broken my wrist on two occasions, my arm, my knee (in multiple places), my foot, my ankle (both sides), torn my meniscus and my MCL, and have had my body held together with pins, staples, screws, stitches, plaster and tape. I was in a wheel chair - twice. The first instance I graduated from a wheel chair and moved on up to a walker with a handicapped accessory to accommodate the shape of the cast on my broken arm. I am not a warrior. I am a klutz. I once had a physical in the navy and when the doctor told me to stand on one leg he asked if I was drunk when I could barely perform this task. He gave me a breathalyzer.
Last Saturday was one of the first hot days in the Big D. I spent most of the afternoon at the pool (hanging with the bottom feeders and trolls). The day was very sunny and exceptionally hot. I wanted to go for a run and threw on my black Nike running pants and decided I was going to wear my sports bra as my top. A white one. And since I am training to be a triathlete, and therefore can claim to have a traithlete body, I said, “You’re welcome, Grosse Pointe.”
I set out with my Sporty Spice pony-tail, and my jammin’-est tunes on my ipod-touch. Half a mile in, I passed my old high school and it was actually the beginning of Senior Prom. I saw the looks on the 18 year old boys’ faces as I passed and thought, ‘Still got it!’
Half a mile later, I was running on the lake. I got the gratuitous car honks and saw a couple of cars swerve, which made me feel just like Selma Hayek in Desperado except with a Mid-West accent (which is just as sexy as a Mexican accent, right?!) Err… :/
I was feeling really good about myself. My songs were pumping me up, I set a great pace, my lungs felt good, and oh! Is this a car full of boys about to check me out? Ye…
And then it happened.
As with all of my accidents, time was manipulated. That way, I could experience everything in slow motion, and be certain not to miss an ounce of humiliation. I could point out the name, make and license number of every car on the road in either direction, all of whose attention was solely focused on me and my impending disaster. I could see where birds were over head. I could point out squirrels in trees (laughing haughtily at me). And I could see the color of every sail in the water, whose captains were at that moment staring at my misfortune through binoculars and calling their friends to come and see. I knew what was coming and I could not do a thing to stop it. And while yes, I was running on a flat, smooth surface, my right foot caught on what could only be the ground… or my left foot.
So, at this point, my left foot was up in the air in full stride, my arms were thrown up in front of me, and my ridiculous smug look was replaced with the look of shock and fear and open mouthful of “Oh Shuga!” My momentum pushed me forward so it looked like I was sliding into first. And then I made contact with the ground. The stupid, nasty, dirty ground that penetrated through my running pants and gave fresh wounds to my already surgery scarred knee and scraped my shin to leave me with matching scars from that time that I tripped over a tree stump in 8th grade.
When it was over, it played like highlights from ESPN Sports Center in my head. I saw myself sliding in and out of the ground like I was being played on a big screen. I slid in, but before I touched the ground, someone would rewind me so that I was all of a sudden reversing, starting the scene over and over again while the sportscasters made fun and pointed out how my expression changed in every frame. Then, mercifully, the replay mode stopped, and I actually hit the ground. The gravel ingrained on my sweaty stomach and dirt stains on my white sports bra had me rethinking the ‘no shirt’ idea. And there I lay, on the side of Lake Shore Drive with every eye on me. Wounded. Stung. Humiliated. I got up as quickly as I could, but not before I saw everyone laughing at me, pointing and staring like that 13 year old girl nobody likes. Well, if this were “Carrie,” they’d all be locked in a gym with pigs' blood on their face. Then we’d see who got the last laugh.
With 3.5 miles left to go, each mile was slower than the one before and every minute was unbearable. The sun was beating down. I was dehydrated and felt like I was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. I wiped my face and mouth with my hands and realized that my hands were bloody, and now my face and mouth were likely blood stained as well. I imagined myself as part of the Twilight Saga, no doubt evening a score with a certain hubris ridden squirrel. Then, as if the animal kingdom wanted to retaliate, I felt something knock me on the head. I looked around and I promise you, a gigantic bird, probably an eagle, but perhaps a Pterodactyl, hid behind the bushes. He dropped an acorn on my head and then hid from me! I finished my run, knowing that every person I passed was in on my secret, laughing. Not hot, people. Not hot.
Now, I realize that my account may have you thinking of me as the villain and not the heroine. I don’t automatically love children. I cannot be trusted with wild life. And I tend to make a few too many positive comments in my favor (which let’s face it, are all true). But this is my blog, so you have to cheer for me. It’s the rules…
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Holy Grail of Bicycles
You know the saying, “There’s a sucker born every day?” Well, that saying was conceived December 26, 1988, the day of my birth. (I know many of you are surprised that I’ve accomplished so much in my 21 short years of life. The term child prodigy comes to mind.) I digress. That saying was formed with me in mind. I won’t share with you the cost of my brand new Cannondale CAAD 9 Féminine 5 Road Racer, in its shiny silver aluminum gloriousness. But the only comparison to it would be the Holy Grail of Christmas Presents. An Official Red Ryder Two Hundred Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time. Just brilliant. Caady, as she’s called, is complete with Shimano 105 gears, Shimano RS10 rims, hubs and spokes. It’s true that I have no idea what that means or how it will affect my ride, but it is nice. The salesman told me so himself. My bike is specifically designed to account for my freakishly small hands, weighs less than Kate Moss’ lunch and mounted on it is this thing that tells RPM. Clearly, this bike is going to make me go so fast I almost don’t need to practice. It races itself. So I can ride like the wind blows.
Sadly, I’ve been told that when I show up to Chicago on game day, I’m going to get laughed at. These clowns are serious. A cheap bike to them is 5 Large. That’s $5,000 for my pigmently challenged friends. Now people, I may be a sucker, but mama didn’t raise no fool. Besides, if I had 5 G’s to spend (that’s still $5,000… try to keep up), I would definitely be getting a pair of heels out of that exchange. And not from Macy's. But from a little store on 5th Avenue called Saks. Eighth floor, please.
I have to tell you that I’m a little nervous about competing against people who have previously done marathons, Olympic Triathlons and Iron Mans. My claim to fame is 8 years of the PRT and the O-Course, Naval Station ANNAPOLIS. Oh yeah. It’s as scary as the name implies. I’m actually a pretty competitive person in general. If I get on the treadmill next to you, I’m gonna go faster and longer just because. If that’s not possible, I’ll figure out a way to unplug you mid-stride and watch you fall off the back and feign concern as you limp away. If you’re on a diet and losing weight, I’ll munch on celery sticks alone for a week. Or add a high protein weight gaining supplement to your Slim Fast. But what to do when I have no possible chance of finishing within a half hour of these characters? If I get caught trying to dunk the swimmers, throwing sticks at the bikers, or tripping the runners I will likely be disqualified. I could wear a "Top Ten Reasons Why You’re Faster Than Me but I’m STILL Better Than You" T-Shirt. But that can’t be very cute and I’d likely miss my endorsement opportunity with Nike. Sure, sure. There’s that whole “Compete with yourself and do your personal best,” mindset. But this is my first one, so clearly that does not apply to me. I guess I’m open to suggestions…
Meanwhile, I’ll let you know how Caady performs. I’m big time now.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Tri-athletes Eat Tofu and Brussels Sprouts
I was very fortunate growing up in that I was always supremely skinny. I’m not talking about thin or svelte. I mean really really skinny. Bones poking out in awkward places - skinny. Guidance counselors making sure that I had enough food to eat - skinny. Kate Moss, you’re a big fat pig – skinny. I miss those days.
I went to a college where physical exercise was not only mandatory, it was fun. The hours right after class were the best part of the day; I got to work out. My senior year I ran 1.5 miles in 11:17; did 80 push-ups in less than 2 minutes and 101 sit-ups in less than 2 minutes. After 3+ years of struggling with the Physical Readiness Test (PRT), I had finally validated it. I got an A. I was really really skinny.
That was the beginning of the end for me. I remember going to a Navy Football game in Florida a few weeks after that PRT. I have no idea who we were playing, (because honestly, who pays attention to football games), but I do remember being there with my best friend who was the captain of the Navy track team. When I hung out with the track girls, people would often confuse me for one of them, and I loved it! My friend was constantly working out. She used to eat peas with spaghetti sauce for dinner. I wanted to be just like her. But this is the day that it all went south for me. We went to a convenience store to get her a Gatorade. I remember looking at a Snickers Bar and saying, “I really want one.” My best friend, no doubt a wolf in sheep’s clothing said,
“Go ahead! You validated the PRT. You can eat whatever you want.”
And so I did. In fact, it sort of became a way of life for me. The Navy track team captain did not have a Snickers Bar that day. And she remained really really skinny. Bitch.
Year after year I found myself struggling with my weight, but not making any real changes because deep down, I still thought of myself as a skinny girl. 18 years of thinking of oneself in a certain light is not easily overcome.
Fast forward to November 2009. I had just started a new job. And, after almost a decade of struggling with my weight, I had finally managed to be really really skinny again. And not just for that month. For a good 5 months prior to my start date, and into the 2009 Holiday Season, I enjoyed feeling like my clothes were hanging off my bones. I could try on a potato sack and it would look fantastic on me. I bought a size 2 suit and had to get it taken in. One simply cannot beat that feeling of euphoria. Pure bliss. Nothing feels better than being skinny. Nothing tastes better than being skinny.
Here’s what I’m leaving out. In December 2008 I was laid off. I was forced out of my fantastic studio-loft apartment in the West Village of Manhattan because, despite my frantic efforts, I could not find work. I left a job that I didn’t love, but that gave me a sense of accomplishment and pride. I worked for a sexy magazine title and I lived in New York and like Frank said, “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.” Well, as it turned out, I couldn’t make it there. And the way things were going, I would be unemployed for the rest of my life. Obviously, the best way to deal with this situation was to completely give up. So I stopped looking for jobs. I stopped leaving the house (except, of course, to buy food and beer). I ate whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I stopped working out. I never broke a sweat. Speaking of sweat, I dressed in sweat pants every day. After all, that’s the only thing that fit me since even my ‘fat girl’ jeans wouldn’t button. I was out of control.
February 2009, two big events happened. The first was when I was going to a party and I knew that sweats would not be appropriate. I went to Neiman Marcus and had to buy the largest pair of jeans they sold. In fact, heaven forbid I should have to inconvenience myself by leaving the house again, I went ahead and bought two. There was no getting bigger than this if I wanted to continue to shop at the normal-size stores. The second event was visiting my best friend in Law School at Stanford. Upon seeing me she hugged me, told me she loved me, and informed me that we were starting our diets in the morning.
The next ten days were the hardest and easiest of my life. I thought about food all day, every day. I was cleansing my body of garbage and with the exception of my single serving of orange juice that I refused to give up, I did not have any carbohydrates, including sugar. I counted my calories (which I had reduced to 1200 a day). I ate eggs, fish, vegetables, and chewed sugar free gum like I owned stock in Wrigley’s. But my best friend was doing it too and we were in it together. By the time I left, 10 days later, all of my clothes (albeit my fat girl clothes) fit me better. Three months later, I was back to normal. Another three months after that I was skinny. Really really skinny.
Fast forward again to April 2010. I’m training for a triathlon! Yaaaay… I’m supposed to have a Tri-athlete Body! A friend of mine emailed me last week and said,
“You’re training for a triathlon! Admit it. You spend ten extra minutes a day staring at your stomach in the mirror now.”
If only that were true. Part of the reason I so wanted people to think I was a track runner was because they were all so skinny! If they thought I was a runner, it meant that they thought I was SKINNY. All these years later, I remember the Navy track team captain (aka, wolf in sheep’s clothing) telling me,
“They run because they’re skinny. They’re not skinny because they run.”
It has taken me a decade to fully understand what she meant. I do intense workouts 5-10 hours a week. Every week. In fact, some might say that I’m training for a triathlon. ;) So don’t I deserve to have dessert after every meal? Shouldn’t I be allowed to top off my egg white omelet with a Kit-Kat and carton of Hot Tomales? Can’t I have a pack of pop tarts as a mid-morning snack? What’s wrong with having lemon bars for dessert when I finish my four-mile run?
Ten pounds after starting my job later, my weight struggle is re-emerging. Though it is a constant companion of mine (I think about food and weight as often as a16 year old boy thinks about sex), it has been easy for me to dismiss. While my scale kept going up, I still looked good. It was hard to deprive myself of my delicious treats when I loved the way I looked. In my clothes. At the gym. In the shower! Sure, sure, I was getting away from Kate Moss skinny, but in a dress I was smokin’ them. And thanks to Rebecca, The Miracle Worker, everything remained tight and toned. As I have recently come to realize, that can only last so long.
This week was the first week that I noticed I was really not happy with the way I looked sans clothing anymore. I was really not happy with the way that I looked standing in the mirror wearing fabulous underwear that was supposed to make me look like Heidi-Klum and make Seal want to run away with me, and leave her. And while I’m no where near being able to fit back into those jeans from Neiman Marcus (which I consequently gave away after a handful of uses), this morning I had to wear a skirt because the jeans I tried on were uncomfortably snug. How did that happen?
The truth is I’m not going to have a “Tri-athlete Body” unless I start eating like a tri-athlete. I’m not saying this as if I’ve just come to a realization. I have known for a while that if you want to be really really skinny, you just can’t eat. Diet and exercise is a myth. Unfortunately, the only way to lose weight is to diet. Exercise keeps one healthy, fit and toned. However, what often happens is that the appetite one satisfies after say, running, swimming or biking, is far greater than calories burned while said running, swimming or biking.
Once I get to my goal weight, my daily caloric intake will be 1600 calories - including one or two intense workouts a day. This is going to be a daily struggle the rest of my life. Every day, I will have to choose steamed vegetables over a side of potatoes; carrots over cheese; and water over (gulp) wine. Hot Tomales, Pop Tarts, and Kit-Kats will never be part of my diet. (Honestly, after my detox in Palo Alto, when did it become OK for me to eat these things?!) I will have to decide which special occasions warrant a glass of wine or an actual (unpackaged) dessert. By the way, I don’t get to have dessert every day, let alone after every meal.
Several years ago, feeling helpless over my weight issues, I remember saying to my friend, who emailed me about staring at my abs in the mirror,
“It’s so easy for you. You’re naturally skinny.”
We have since joked about that moment. It is not easy for anyone. Every skinny bitch one encounters is in fact a bitch because she’s hungry. My friend makes the conscious choice to run 3 miles every morning. She eats fruit for breakfast and half a sandwich for lunch. I’m pretty sure she eats a handful of almonds for dinner. But the point is she’s skinny. Really, really skinny.
To be satisfied in life, you must become the person you want to be or accept the person you are. If you’re happy with the person you are and you’re also healthy, that is wonderful. You are miles ahead of the rest of us. But, if like me, you struggle with your weight and it prevents you from being the person you are meant to be, it is a painful, life-long challenge that is worth every celery stick, and every pair of unused $300 jeans that you will lose along the way.
I’m going to meet with my two BFFs (Captain of the Navy track team and Stanford Law School) in Chicago in three weeks. Stanford told me she was going to be really skinny when she saw me, and she hoped I would be too. It is fitting that Chicago is the place that will see the culmination of rigorous training twice for me this summer. These next three weeks will be harder than any version of a triathlon I would dare to complete. But at the end of week one, I will be back in my jeans. At the end of week two, I will be staring at my stomach in the mirror. And at the end of week three, I will be ready to meet one of the few people in this world who loves me enough to tell me when I need to put the Twinkie down and diet.
For you skinny bitches out there, your horrible existence continues to motivate me. But for the rest of us still struggling, you are not alone. Losing weight happens one decision at a time. Losing two pounds a week is healthy, so of course my goal is eight pounds over the next three weeks. I’m starting today. So can you.
I went to a college where physical exercise was not only mandatory, it was fun. The hours right after class were the best part of the day; I got to work out. My senior year I ran 1.5 miles in 11:17; did 80 push-ups in less than 2 minutes and 101 sit-ups in less than 2 minutes. After 3+ years of struggling with the Physical Readiness Test (PRT), I had finally validated it. I got an A. I was really really skinny.
That was the beginning of the end for me. I remember going to a Navy Football game in Florida a few weeks after that PRT. I have no idea who we were playing, (because honestly, who pays attention to football games), but I do remember being there with my best friend who was the captain of the Navy track team. When I hung out with the track girls, people would often confuse me for one of them, and I loved it! My friend was constantly working out. She used to eat peas with spaghetti sauce for dinner. I wanted to be just like her. But this is the day that it all went south for me. We went to a convenience store to get her a Gatorade. I remember looking at a Snickers Bar and saying, “I really want one.” My best friend, no doubt a wolf in sheep’s clothing said,
“Go ahead! You validated the PRT. You can eat whatever you want.”
And so I did. In fact, it sort of became a way of life for me. The Navy track team captain did not have a Snickers Bar that day. And she remained really really skinny. Bitch.
Year after year I found myself struggling with my weight, but not making any real changes because deep down, I still thought of myself as a skinny girl. 18 years of thinking of oneself in a certain light is not easily overcome.
Fast forward to November 2009. I had just started a new job. And, after almost a decade of struggling with my weight, I had finally managed to be really really skinny again. And not just for that month. For a good 5 months prior to my start date, and into the 2009 Holiday Season, I enjoyed feeling like my clothes were hanging off my bones. I could try on a potato sack and it would look fantastic on me. I bought a size 2 suit and had to get it taken in. One simply cannot beat that feeling of euphoria. Pure bliss. Nothing feels better than being skinny. Nothing tastes better than being skinny.
Here’s what I’m leaving out. In December 2008 I was laid off. I was forced out of my fantastic studio-loft apartment in the West Village of Manhattan because, despite my frantic efforts, I could not find work. I left a job that I didn’t love, but that gave me a sense of accomplishment and pride. I worked for a sexy magazine title and I lived in New York and like Frank said, “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.” Well, as it turned out, I couldn’t make it there. And the way things were going, I would be unemployed for the rest of my life. Obviously, the best way to deal with this situation was to completely give up. So I stopped looking for jobs. I stopped leaving the house (except, of course, to buy food and beer). I ate whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I stopped working out. I never broke a sweat. Speaking of sweat, I dressed in sweat pants every day. After all, that’s the only thing that fit me since even my ‘fat girl’ jeans wouldn’t button. I was out of control.
February 2009, two big events happened. The first was when I was going to a party and I knew that sweats would not be appropriate. I went to Neiman Marcus and had to buy the largest pair of jeans they sold. In fact, heaven forbid I should have to inconvenience myself by leaving the house again, I went ahead and bought two. There was no getting bigger than this if I wanted to continue to shop at the normal-size stores. The second event was visiting my best friend in Law School at Stanford. Upon seeing me she hugged me, told me she loved me, and informed me that we were starting our diets in the morning.
The next ten days were the hardest and easiest of my life. I thought about food all day, every day. I was cleansing my body of garbage and with the exception of my single serving of orange juice that I refused to give up, I did not have any carbohydrates, including sugar. I counted my calories (which I had reduced to 1200 a day). I ate eggs, fish, vegetables, and chewed sugar free gum like I owned stock in Wrigley’s. But my best friend was doing it too and we were in it together. By the time I left, 10 days later, all of my clothes (albeit my fat girl clothes) fit me better. Three months later, I was back to normal. Another three months after that I was skinny. Really really skinny.
Fast forward again to April 2010. I’m training for a triathlon! Yaaaay… I’m supposed to have a Tri-athlete Body! A friend of mine emailed me last week and said,
“You’re training for a triathlon! Admit it. You spend ten extra minutes a day staring at your stomach in the mirror now.”
If only that were true. Part of the reason I so wanted people to think I was a track runner was because they were all so skinny! If they thought I was a runner, it meant that they thought I was SKINNY. All these years later, I remember the Navy track team captain (aka, wolf in sheep’s clothing) telling me,
“They run because they’re skinny. They’re not skinny because they run.”
It has taken me a decade to fully understand what she meant. I do intense workouts 5-10 hours a week. Every week. In fact, some might say that I’m training for a triathlon. ;) So don’t I deserve to have dessert after every meal? Shouldn’t I be allowed to top off my egg white omelet with a Kit-Kat and carton of Hot Tomales? Can’t I have a pack of pop tarts as a mid-morning snack? What’s wrong with having lemon bars for dessert when I finish my four-mile run?
Ten pounds after starting my job later, my weight struggle is re-emerging. Though it is a constant companion of mine (I think about food and weight as often as a16 year old boy thinks about sex), it has been easy for me to dismiss. While my scale kept going up, I still looked good. It was hard to deprive myself of my delicious treats when I loved the way I looked. In my clothes. At the gym. In the shower! Sure, sure, I was getting away from Kate Moss skinny, but in a dress I was smokin’ them. And thanks to Rebecca, The Miracle Worker, everything remained tight and toned. As I have recently come to realize, that can only last so long.
This week was the first week that I noticed I was really not happy with the way I looked sans clothing anymore. I was really not happy with the way that I looked standing in the mirror wearing fabulous underwear that was supposed to make me look like Heidi-Klum and make Seal want to run away with me, and leave her. And while I’m no where near being able to fit back into those jeans from Neiman Marcus (which I consequently gave away after a handful of uses), this morning I had to wear a skirt because the jeans I tried on were uncomfortably snug. How did that happen?
The truth is I’m not going to have a “Tri-athlete Body” unless I start eating like a tri-athlete. I’m not saying this as if I’ve just come to a realization. I have known for a while that if you want to be really really skinny, you just can’t eat. Diet and exercise is a myth. Unfortunately, the only way to lose weight is to diet. Exercise keeps one healthy, fit and toned. However, what often happens is that the appetite one satisfies after say, running, swimming or biking, is far greater than calories burned while said running, swimming or biking.
Once I get to my goal weight, my daily caloric intake will be 1600 calories - including one or two intense workouts a day. This is going to be a daily struggle the rest of my life. Every day, I will have to choose steamed vegetables over a side of potatoes; carrots over cheese; and water over (gulp) wine. Hot Tomales, Pop Tarts, and Kit-Kats will never be part of my diet. (Honestly, after my detox in Palo Alto, when did it become OK for me to eat these things?!) I will have to decide which special occasions warrant a glass of wine or an actual (unpackaged) dessert. By the way, I don’t get to have dessert every day, let alone after every meal.
Several years ago, feeling helpless over my weight issues, I remember saying to my friend, who emailed me about staring at my abs in the mirror,
“It’s so easy for you. You’re naturally skinny.”
We have since joked about that moment. It is not easy for anyone. Every skinny bitch one encounters is in fact a bitch because she’s hungry. My friend makes the conscious choice to run 3 miles every morning. She eats fruit for breakfast and half a sandwich for lunch. I’m pretty sure she eats a handful of almonds for dinner. But the point is she’s skinny. Really, really skinny.
To be satisfied in life, you must become the person you want to be or accept the person you are. If you’re happy with the person you are and you’re also healthy, that is wonderful. You are miles ahead of the rest of us. But, if like me, you struggle with your weight and it prevents you from being the person you are meant to be, it is a painful, life-long challenge that is worth every celery stick, and every pair of unused $300 jeans that you will lose along the way.
I’m going to meet with my two BFFs (Captain of the Navy track team and Stanford Law School) in Chicago in three weeks. Stanford told me she was going to be really skinny when she saw me, and she hoped I would be too. It is fitting that Chicago is the place that will see the culmination of rigorous training twice for me this summer. These next three weeks will be harder than any version of a triathlon I would dare to complete. But at the end of week one, I will be back in my jeans. At the end of week two, I will be staring at my stomach in the mirror. And at the end of week three, I will be ready to meet one of the few people in this world who loves me enough to tell me when I need to put the Twinkie down and diet.
For you skinny bitches out there, your horrible existence continues to motivate me. But for the rest of us still struggling, you are not alone. Losing weight happens one decision at a time. Losing two pounds a week is healthy, so of course my goal is eight pounds over the next three weeks. I’m starting today. So can you.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Central Park
I ran in Central Park last Thursday. On my way, I ran into Admiral Roughead in his police escorted military convoy. I actually run into him often which I find a little suspicious given that I live in Detroit. Who should one call when being stalked by the Chief of Naval Operations? I mean, enough already, Gary! I had a similar incident with an actress named Rosario. Honestly, some people have no regard for personal privacy.
Admiral Roughead was Commandant of Midshipmen when I was at the Academy. (Have I mentioned that I went to the Naval Academy?) When I think of Admiral Roughead, I am of course reminded of his catch phrase, "Everything in moderation except moderation itself." I always thought it should be "INCLUDING" moderation itself, but I have an incredibly compulsive personality. You may have noticed this?
So, I'm running through Central Park and it is literally 430 degrees outside (I am not one to exaggerate). I thought I was going to die and some unsuspecting runner was going to happen across my lifeless body. The mystery would fall upon a snarky, mixed-gender crime-fighting detective-duo that lands me my very own plot line on Law & Order SVU (BUM - BUM). End Scene.
One good thing about running in Central Park is the numbers game. The sheer mass of people running at any given time guarantees that I will actually pass people. And I'm not just talking about walkers and moms holding their toddler's hands as they struggle to take their first steps. I mean real runners. Complete with real running "outfits" (because obviously if you have a real running "outfit" you are a real runner...). But just as I would start to get excited I would get passed. I don't really mind when it's by a 30-year old meat-head sans shirt chanting, "Which way to the gym!" But when it's a 60 year old woman, it gets a little disheartening. I started thinking,
'I wish there was a bear chasing me. I bet I would run so much faster. How can I incorporate that into my workouts? I would seriously be so fast trying to outrun a bear. Or a rabid dog. But not the shit-kicking kind. Something that would really put the fear of God into me. Man. There's gotta be a way to bottle that up and sell it. Why didn't I pay more attention the day they taught business in business school?'
OK. Back to moderation. I started thinking about how we so often think of moderation as part of our daily life. Exercise (by the by, I did the 6-mile loop in Central Park in about 60 minutes. Beep, Beep!), diet, drinking, incorporating new robot moves into one's dance routines, work-life balance, etc. But what about family? I come from one of those crazy Latin-American families where your third cousin twice removed is still just "cousin," or your play aunt/uncle depending on the age gap. I am in town this week because my grandfather died. It is very painful. I call, text, email, facebook-poke my friends on a daily basis. I wish that my 71 year old grandfather had had a facebook account so that he would have known that I was training for a triathlon. He would have known that my idea of excellent child-rearing is doping your kids up with Nyquil before taking them in public or Vicodin before taking them on a plane. And he would have known that I still have a dance party in my car when Miley Cirus comes on the radio. But don't worry. He knew that I am the Queen of the Robot. He knew that I have random bursts of school spirit as I do periodically shout 'Beat Army!' for effect. And most importantly, I know that he knew I loved him. He was, in essence, my only grandfather; one of the few people on this earth that loved me unconditionally. But did he know that I loved him because I knew he always believed in me; because he made me laugh every time I spoke to him, whether he intended to or not; or because when I kissed him his mustache smelled of tobacco and he patted me on the butt and said, "Grandpa loves you."?
Much later that Thursday evening, I was sitting around drinking beers (which is so not on my triathlon training program or "Skinny Bitch" diet) with my uncles and my cousin (whom I've always considered my uncle). These men, now in their 40's and 50's were like super heroes to me growing up. Veterans all, they influenced where I went to college and my decision to serve in the Armed Forces. Even last Thursday, as I toasted my grandfather with them, I sat back and admired my uncles. Funny, charismatic and handsome, anyone of them could be a GQ model in his own right. I felt like a shy little girl who finally got invited to the party and could drink with them. Over the years, I have fallen in love with their equally gorgeous wives and amazing children (who incidentally will be severely injured if they ever try to call me their aunt!). But I don't call any of them every day. I don't even call them every month. They know that I love them. But I'm not sure that they know that I love them because I remember them tucking me into bed as a child, cheering me on as a plebe, or simply because I still light up whenever they're around.
When there's a death of someone close, it reminds me of January 1st. There's a reinvigorated sense of motivation, but by February 1st, resolutions from the new year have been forgotten. I will not resolve to call or email on a weekly basis; nor will I do anything as cliché as dedicating my race to my grandfather. But I will try to learn from this experience so that I'm not filled with the same sense of regret as I feel towards my grandfather's passing and all the pieces of me that I wish he knew. So as I think about moderation, I will consider that it should equally affect all parts of my life. And that maybe Admiral Roughead had it right after all. I will think about moderation beyond terms of incorporating a bike and swim into my running routine; beyond alternating "Go Navy!" cries with "Beat Army!" cheers; and beyond mixing up the Robot with a little bit of the running man. I hope I continue to feel my grandfather's presence in my life. But I'll always remember his last gift to me, introspection. I may even reach for it during my race in August. Maybe by then I'll have figured out how to bottle up a shark to chase me through my swim in Lake Michigan.
Admiral Roughead was Commandant of Midshipmen when I was at the Academy. (Have I mentioned that I went to the Naval Academy?) When I think of Admiral Roughead, I am of course reminded of his catch phrase, "Everything in moderation except moderation itself." I always thought it should be "INCLUDING" moderation itself, but I have an incredibly compulsive personality. You may have noticed this?
So, I'm running through Central Park and it is literally 430 degrees outside (I am not one to exaggerate). I thought I was going to die and some unsuspecting runner was going to happen across my lifeless body. The mystery would fall upon a snarky, mixed-gender crime-fighting detective-duo that lands me my very own plot line on Law & Order SVU (BUM - BUM). End Scene.
One good thing about running in Central Park is the numbers game. The sheer mass of people running at any given time guarantees that I will actually pass people. And I'm not just talking about walkers and moms holding their toddler's hands as they struggle to take their first steps. I mean real runners. Complete with real running "outfits" (because obviously if you have a real running "outfit" you are a real runner...). But just as I would start to get excited I would get passed. I don't really mind when it's by a 30-year old meat-head sans shirt chanting, "Which way to the gym!" But when it's a 60 year old woman, it gets a little disheartening. I started thinking,
'I wish there was a bear chasing me. I bet I would run so much faster. How can I incorporate that into my workouts? I would seriously be so fast trying to outrun a bear. Or a rabid dog. But not the shit-kicking kind. Something that would really put the fear of God into me. Man. There's gotta be a way to bottle that up and sell it. Why didn't I pay more attention the day they taught business in business school?'
OK. Back to moderation. I started thinking about how we so often think of moderation as part of our daily life. Exercise (by the by, I did the 6-mile loop in Central Park in about 60 minutes. Beep, Beep!), diet, drinking, incorporating new robot moves into one's dance routines, work-life balance, etc. But what about family? I come from one of those crazy Latin-American families where your third cousin twice removed is still just "cousin," or your play aunt/uncle depending on the age gap. I am in town this week because my grandfather died. It is very painful. I call, text, email, facebook-poke my friends on a daily basis. I wish that my 71 year old grandfather had had a facebook account so that he would have known that I was training for a triathlon. He would have known that my idea of excellent child-rearing is doping your kids up with Nyquil before taking them in public or Vicodin before taking them on a plane. And he would have known that I still have a dance party in my car when Miley Cirus comes on the radio. But don't worry. He knew that I am the Queen of the Robot. He knew that I have random bursts of school spirit as I do periodically shout 'Beat Army!' for effect. And most importantly, I know that he knew I loved him. He was, in essence, my only grandfather; one of the few people on this earth that loved me unconditionally. But did he know that I loved him because I knew he always believed in me; because he made me laugh every time I spoke to him, whether he intended to or not; or because when I kissed him his mustache smelled of tobacco and he patted me on the butt and said, "Grandpa loves you."?
Much later that Thursday evening, I was sitting around drinking beers (which is so not on my triathlon training program or "Skinny Bitch" diet) with my uncles and my cousin (whom I've always considered my uncle). These men, now in their 40's and 50's were like super heroes to me growing up. Veterans all, they influenced where I went to college and my decision to serve in the Armed Forces. Even last Thursday, as I toasted my grandfather with them, I sat back and admired my uncles. Funny, charismatic and handsome, anyone of them could be a GQ model in his own right. I felt like a shy little girl who finally got invited to the party and could drink with them. Over the years, I have fallen in love with their equally gorgeous wives and amazing children (who incidentally will be severely injured if they ever try to call me their aunt!). But I don't call any of them every day. I don't even call them every month. They know that I love them. But I'm not sure that they know that I love them because I remember them tucking me into bed as a child, cheering me on as a plebe, or simply because I still light up whenever they're around.
When there's a death of someone close, it reminds me of January 1st. There's a reinvigorated sense of motivation, but by February 1st, resolutions from the new year have been forgotten. I will not resolve to call or email on a weekly basis; nor will I do anything as cliché as dedicating my race to my grandfather. But I will try to learn from this experience so that I'm not filled with the same sense of regret as I feel towards my grandfather's passing and all the pieces of me that I wish he knew. So as I think about moderation, I will consider that it should equally affect all parts of my life. And that maybe Admiral Roughead had it right after all. I will think about moderation beyond terms of incorporating a bike and swim into my running routine; beyond alternating "Go Navy!" cries with "Beat Army!" cheers; and beyond mixing up the Robot with a little bit of the running man. I hope I continue to feel my grandfather's presence in my life. But I'll always remember his last gift to me, introspection. I may even reach for it during my race in August. Maybe by then I'll have figured out how to bottle up a shark to chase me through my swim in Lake Michigan.
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